True Story

In case anyone was wondering, the previous two posts are true stories that happened 30 years ago. The girl was left wanting to be clean and whole, but also desperate for someone to love her and find worth in her. Unfortunately those two desires seemed to conflict with each other. The more she did to try to obtain love, the more unlovely she felt, the more broken and hurt she became. It created a downward spiral in her life for 8 years. By the time she was 22, she was married to her 2nd husband and expecting her 2nd child.

She'd attempted to pray but found the door to heaven tightly shut. (She didn't realize that in order to open that door she had to go through with Jesus.) She went to her former pastor. He didn't seem to have a clue how to help. His answer was for the girl to think of a book in the bible. (She wished that somewhere along the way she'd memorized the books of the bible, because outside of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, she couldn't think of any other books.) She blurted one of them out and picked out a number. Together they read the passage of scripture, but none of it seemed to apply. The pastor was looking in the right direction, but had nothing real to offer her.

She went to see another pastor to confess all of her sins, hoping to find forgiveness. Again, she went away empty. She tried to read her bible, but everything seemed a blur. The girl was losing hope fast. She visited several churches. In one, they pinned a giant ribbon on her dress with the word VISITOR printed on it. She felt like a prize at the county fair. At least she couldn't blend in that day. During the service she blushed when all of the visitors were told to stand so everyone could see them and greet them after the service. When it was all over, she sat in the car with her almost 3 year old. Tears ran down her face. She couldn't believe nobody, not 1 single person had introduced themselves or even said hello. She was ashamed. She knew why they didn't talk to her. They thought she was an unwed mother and pregnant again. They knew her shame and nobody wanted to be around her.

But this story has a happy ending. The girl ventured out one last time. She visited one more church. The people were very friendly. Towards the beginning of the service, the Pastor instructed everyone to greet those around them. Feeling very awkward, the girl just stood there, until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around and a boisterous woman grabbed her and hugged her tightly to her chest. She didn't let go right away. She hugged her longer. Finally she pulled back. "Hi, I'm Carol! I am so happy to meet you. I am so glad you are here, and aren't you the most beautiful pregnant lady I've ever seen." After the service, the two exchanged phone numbers. Carol invited her over for coffee. Within the month, not only were the two good friends, but Carol shared with her the secret to feeling clean again, how much she was loved and the answer to her loneliness. She explained the simplicity of the gospel message and I was born again.

I was given a new identity. The slate was wiped clean. I was no longer bound to the shame of the past or desperate for love. I became a beloved daughter. I am a partner with Jesus and nothing can separate me from His love. Twenty-two years later, He still loves me. He still amazes me beyond words. Our relationship has taken some adventurous twists and turns. I learn new things about God all of the time. The relationship grows the way all relationships do, by spending time with one another. I enjoy sharing the secrets and desires in my heart, my burdens and cares. I've learned to listen to Him share the same. And the funny part? The more I let Him get to know me, He still loves me the same. The more I know about Him, the more I love Him.

PART TWO

The summer before high school, Barbara moved to a nearby town. The girl still didn't have a lot of friends. Her parents would sometimes allow her to spend the weekend with Barbara. During one weekend the girls, as usual, hung out at a nearby bowling alley. That was where the girl met Joe and Kevin.

At first the girl did not care for them at all. They were obnoxious and crude and talked awful. But because there wasn't much to do at Barbara's and her parents didn't care what the girls did, they ended up spending quite a bit of time with Joe and Kevin that weekend. When the girls finally decided to go in that night, Joe leaned in and kissed the girl. She went away feeling very strange. Why did he kiss her? Did he like her? And what kind of kiss was that? She'd never had attention like that from any boy. It was sort of exciting, but very scary at the same time. The girl went to sleep with a mix of emotions.

The following week Joe asked her out. She was only 14 and Joe was 17, but she begged her father to let her go. It was just a drive-in movie and Kevin and Barbara were going also. It took some doing, but she convinced her father to let her go.

Joe and Kevin picked her up at the appointed time. As they drove towards the next town the girl was excited. She'd never driven in a car without an adult. The boys were smoking and kept offering it to the girl. She knew they weren't smoking regular cigarettes. She was afraid Joe wouldn't like her anymore if she didn't do it. He would think she was a baby. Joe pulled the car over and switched places with Kevin.

"When are we picking up Barbara?" The girl asked.
"She can't make it. We are stopping by another friend's house." Joe sat next to the girl and began to kiss her. She began to feel loved. But the feelings quickly began to disentigrate into confusion when Joe began to talk about having sex.

Back when she was in confirmation class, the pastor had discussed the ten commandments. They discussed how to say no to someone who wanted to have sex with you, give you drugs and such. But the girl was totally unprepared for this. She'd imagined walking down the street and some hoodlum asking her if she wanted to do drugs. She imagined herself emphatically telling him no. She never thought it would be someone she wanted to like her. She also had no idea she would enjoy kissing a boy when the subject of sex came up and she'd have the same confused feelings.

Finally, when she could manage the pressure no longer, she blurted out, "I can't do those things. It is Saturday night and I'm going to church tomorrow." The boys laughed.

The car stopped on a dark street and the 3 kids went into the house. There was a party going on with no adults in sight. The air was hazy with smoke. The girl knew the smell well enough to know it wasn't just cigarrette smoke. She sat on the couch with the boys. She was made fun of by others there when Joe told them she wouldn't get high with them. Several of them blew smoke in her face, trying to get her to inhale. She was beginning to feel light-headed and was trying her best to figure a way out of the situation. She looked around for a phone. Maybe there was a phone in a bedroom. She could ask to use the restroom and sneak in and call her parents to come get her. But the girl had no idea where she was. She didn't know the address or even the street name or whose house they were at.

She was feeling so disoriented and scared. She envisioned the next day's headlines in the newspaper: Girl dies from smoking pot. Her parents would think she used drugs and would be disgraced even though it wasn't true. The girl excused herself to go to the restroom where she thought she might be sick.

When she came out, the house was quiet. Nobody was there except Joe. "What's going on?" She asked. "They all left for a bit. Come in here, I want to show you something." Joe took her into another room and closed the door. It was then the girl realized his intentions. "Please Joe, I don't want to do this. I want to go home now."

Joe persisted. He ignored her pleas. She tried to hang onto her clothing as he forced it off. The girl wondered if she could escape and run out the door. Where would she go? How could she get help? She knew none of the kids who'd been there would do anything about it. If she only knew the neighborhood, or where someone lived that she could trust. But she still had no idea where she was, except in another town on a dark street. She began to cry feeling totally helpless to break free and also from the physical pain and burning.

After awhile, she knew it was over. Joe got up and left the room. The girl quickly pulled on her clothes. She saw blood on the bed. She'd never felt so dirty and used in all her life. Now who was going to love her? Nobody would want her. She would be destined to marry Joe since he was the one who ruined her.

The house filled with noise again. The girl saw Kevin and asked him if he'd take her home. He did. The girl never told her parents what happened. She was too ashamed. When she'd begged her father to let her go out with Joe, she'd asked, "don't you trust me?" How could he trust her when she let this happen? It didn't matter that she'd had no way to imagine the situation she'd been in, but it was her fault anyway. So the girl began high school feeling like damaged merchandise.

PART ONE

She'd always been the quiet type, very shy, but an excellent student. She was one of those annoying girls that when she did open her mouth, it was usually correct someone's grammar. Her family had moved 3 times in 3 years and she hoped that she would finally make some more friends in Junior High School.

At the end of sixth grade, she'd learned a lot of things. You didn't win popularity contests by pointing out grammar mistakes. In fact, those with the poorest grammar seemed to have lots of friends. Her school was sometimes a scary place. There were some very mean girls who threatened her regularly. How was she ever going to fit in?

That summer a new family moved in just a few doors down. They had a girl who was just 1 year older. Her name was Barb. This family wasn't like any she'd met before. Lots of people of all ages lived at this house. She found out the mom had been married 4 times and most of those living in the house were brothers and sisters from all different dads. Barb's older siblings often had boyfriends of girlfriends spending the night. She wasn't always comfortable at Barb's house, but she was intrigued with the all that went on, especially the parties that they hosted.

She noticed her friend Barb didn't have perfect grammar, but instead of correcting her, she decided to learn from her. She spent the entire summer learning slang and cute deviations of grammar that she knew would make her teachers cringe. And if used correctly, she could enjoy the laughter from other kids when she spoke inappropriately. This would surely win her some friends.

At the same time, the girl was attending a Lutheran Church. She was at the required age for confirmation classes. A new Vicar was teaching the Wednesday night class. One night he just could not take the antics of the kids any longer. He damned them all to hell and walked out on them. The group of seventh graders sat in stunned silence. Some of the rebels snickered. The girl had a hard time believing a grown adult would completely lose his composure and scream something like that at a bunch of kids. Sure the kids had pushed the limits, but weren't adults more mature than that?

She was under the misguided assumption that adults were intelligent, responsible, always did the right things. So this new world she was seeing was very confusing. Barbara's parents had parties, smoked, drank and even smoked pot. The girl began to wonder if her own parents just weren't aware of some things in life. Maybe these things weren't as bad as her parents said they were. Maybe it was just because they'd never tried them. Maybe that was it. Why else would adults party that way, or the Vicar scream at them that they were all damned to hell in a church???

The girl learned a lot in those few short years. She smoked her first cigarette and ditched school. She had her first beer at a church youth group function and got drunk for the first time. A lot happened before she ever started high school.

Christmas In July

Growing up I looked forward to Christmas with great anticipation. By the time my parents were 24 and 25 years old, they had 4 children. It wasn't that they started any younger than others in their generation, but they did have 4 children in 4 1/2 years. (My mom likes to say 5.) Consequently, money was tight. I don't know how they managed, but Christmas at our house was magical.

Back then we didn't have gadgets and electronics to fill our time. We played with and enjoyed simple things. One of my favorite things was listening to music-especially while my dad played along on his steel guitar. It wasn't often, but sometimes he took me in his arms and we danced. I was not one of those little girls like my sister, who desired to take ballet and tap dances. No, I enjoyed dancing with a partner. One particular occasion my dad attempted to show me the foot moves of a dance. I'm sure being so young, I wasn't getting it at all. So he told me to just place my feet atop his black leather shoes so he could better show me. I placed my chubby bare feet atop his warm shoes and we glided and swung around the room. It was glorious!

After that, all I wanted to do was dance. For Christmas I asked for a big doll. Since I loved baby dolls my mom asked if that was what I wanted. No. I wanted a life-size doll, one as big as me so I could dance with her. Mom told me big dolls were very expensive and she doubted they actually made them that big. That didn't stop me from dreaming.

Christmas morning, as always, we were up before the sun. I think this was part of the magic. Walking out a bit bleary-eyed to where the Christmas tree lights sparkled and shined their glowing lights onto beautifully wrapped packages. There were always a few things left unwrapped that made it even more exciting. That morning as I rubbed my sleepy eyes I could hardly believe what I saw. Not only was there a stroller I'd long coveted, but sitting inside was a huge doll. I never thought that this gift might not be mine. I pulled the life-size doll from her chair and hugged her to my chest. My mom had lovingly made a doll nearly my size. She had blonde curls like mine made from brightly colored yarn. She wore a beautiful dress that I later found had a matching one made just for me. But the best part was that under her fabric shoes, my mom had sewn in loops of elastic.

I didn't wait to get dressed. I put my shoes on while wearing my pajamas, then slipped the elastic bands around them. My dolls feet rested perfectly atop my shoes the way mine had on my dad's. I wrapped my arms around her and we danced.

Attitude

I'm trying to have a good attitude, really I am. We arrived home late last night after an exhausting week in the Arizona Desert. Ok, we weren't camping out or anything, but I found it quite unpleasant driving across town in the middle of the day when it was 117 degrees. There was no such thing as sleeping in as it just gets too warm in the morning. I was so happy to crawl into my own bed last night.

I was awakened by an expected commotion. I tried to open my heavy eyelids, but no luck. The light was too bright. I lay quiet, hoping it would be dark again and the rustling around would be stilled. My darling husband finally informed me of the misfortune of my first morning home. Our bedroom shower was leaking. He had completely emptied the closet behind it, cut open the wall to get at the leak only to find it was a bigger problem. My ever-efficient man had already phoned a plumber that would be here within the hour. Not only did I have to get out of bed and dress before showering, I have yet to brush my teeth. I've been sitting here several hours feeling completely undone. The water is shut off so I can't even flush a toilet. It is Sunday and without water there is no way I can make myself presentable to attend church. (Sigh) This is one day I'm glad my girls are not awake yet. It was difficult enough on vacation for 5 females to share a small bathroom, but to have no bathroom to share is worse. If there wasn't a strange man in my bedroom, I'd crawl back in bed.

Adventure

Off for an Adventure. We must be crazy. We are taking a week's "vacation" to the desert of Arizona. Yes, it is July and insanely hot. But I have a son turning 22, (taking my grandson who will turn 4,) parents and inlaws to see, sisters, brother, nieces & nephews to visit. It is just easier for us to pack up and go there as much as I'd love to have them all here. I think they'd love Colorado too.

Scents

I can't figure out how humidity in the air can change the way things smell. I awoke this morning earlier than usual. My coffee wasn't set to brew for another hour so I manually turned it on and went downstairs to put in a load of laundry. When I walked back into the kitchen it smelled like Gramma's home. I make coffee every morning, so how does a bit of extra moisture in the air change the way it smells?

Growing up in the hot desert of Arizona, I loved the times we'd go to California to visit Gramma. She would also say, "don't forget to bring your sweater" before we left, but we never did. (When it is 100 degrees at 10 o'clock at night, one cannot imagine needing a jacket anywhere within a days drive.)

Mom and Dad would load the car on a Friday night and we'd wake up early Saturday morning at Gramma's. The air felt so much cooler and I was told it was because of the humidity and breeze from the ocean. Aroused from my slumber by the thick aroma of coffee, I'd sneak out of bed to be the first to greet Gramma. I'd shiver after pulling the covers off, and want to hop back under the blanket. But the scent of coffee was too enticing. Gramma was in the next room.

Long before I ever thought about drinking coffee, it made an impression on me. Getting that first hug, sitting at the table watching as she sipped from delicate china cups, there was something so warm and inviting in that kitchen. The air seemed thick and heavy with that dark aroma, it surrounded you as if it you were wrapped in a blanket. The sunlight would stream in through the glass doors, creating added warmth. I loved being at Gramma's.

When I awoke this morning after last night's thunderstorms, the air was cool and had that same thickness about it. The coffee hung heavily in the cool, misty air as I walked through my kitchen. I was drawn in and melted into memories of Gramma's house. I sure do miss her.

God Bless America

God bless America,
Land that I love,
Stand beside her and guide her
Thru the night with a light from above;

From the mountains, to the prairies,
To the oceans white with foam,
God bless America,
My home, sweet home.
God bless America,
My home, sweet home

by Irving Berlin


I remember growing up and actually singing this song in school. (gasp) Yes, it was public school. But my favorite patriotic song was Battle Hymn of the Republic, or Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory. This one I learned in Kindergarten. I didn't understand most of the words, but when it came to the chorus I clearly remember standing a little taller. I would sing a little louder. My feet would begin to take steps in place. I envisioned soldiers marching from battle singing praises to God. I felt strong. It was how I imagined David feeling after his battle with Goliath. I understood we lived in a free country, but it had been at a great price.

"Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Since God is marching on."



(If you want to see the complete lyrics and a bit of history, you can find them here.)

Email

Another email I received from my oldest daughter:

I have a boy.
For sure.

E was outside playing. He came "running" inside and was jabbering away. He was showing me some dirt pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
I was like "oh wow!" then I carried on about my business.
After a minute E set the dirt on the counter. The dirt then began to squirm its mangled insect body across my countertop.
EEEEEEEW!
I squished what was left of the bug in a paper towel and threw it in the trash.
I started to walk away but then E started yelling so I turned around to see him pulling everything out of the trash, looking for his bug.

Love

After I wrote Sarabeth's Happy 17th Birthday post, I received this email:

I don't know what led me to read your blog, I was bored, sitting here, nothing else to do. I smiled when I saw my picture there and "Happy 17th Birthday Sarabeth!" Then I got to reading. I've heard all of that before, that I was the velcro baby and everybody tried to help you. But something struck me differently this time, it actually made me cry. I'm thanking God as much as you, right now, for giving me to you because I don't think anybody else in this world would have treated me the same way, with the same loving patience as you did, and you still do. I hope, one day, I can be like you, with enough faith and perseverance to keep moving forward and overcome any task set ahead of me. I've been told that I'm a good writer and should keep that up, but I hope that I can write like you do, with the ability to touch people so strongly that it changes their life forever. And thank you for always being there for me and giving me the courage to press on. Without your unconditional love I know I wouldn't be half the person I am today. Thank you so much. I love you.
-Sarabeth
It is an expression like this that makes the tough years all worthwhile, the long sleepless nights, the tears, the prayers, and the stress. So if you are a parent to young children, or even young teens and wonder if you are making a difference at all, you are.

(P.S. Took Sarabeth to the airport this morning. At the moment she is on a plane flying towards her destination for the next 3.5 weeks. I will miss her but am thankful for today's technology and the ability to keep in close contact.)

Memories

I've noticed recent celebrations of Blog Anniversaries on several blogs. So I wondered to myself how long I've been at this. I checked and was pleasantly surprised. Apparently, today is my 1st Blogging Anniversary. Happy Anniversary to me.

I have kept journals for years. This isn't really a journal, but it is similar. I enjoy going back and re-reading journals to see what life was about at that particular juncture in life, what I was feeling/thinking, and to see if I've grown since then. It is also interesting to be reminded of things that would have been forgotten.

My very first post was regarding my 1st attempt at the Zone Diet. I failed miserably. I would not have guessed that both Michael and I would start it together 9 months later and be successful. (I have lost 25 lbs since that first post.)

I noticed my second post included pictures of a trip to the mountains. I did not remember that Sarabeth had requested that trip for her birthday as well as the one taken last weekend. And although I mentioned that we love going to the moutains for cookouts, I realized that was probably the last time we'd gone.

It just goes to show that our memories are not always accurate of the way things really are. Many will say this and a few will admit this, but what about our perspective? Most of us think our own perspective is the right one. Even as I re-read about struggles in my journal, I'm merely reading my own perspective on life. I'd much rather peer into it with God's eyes to see how He sees it. That would give me a much more truthful interpretation of how I am doing.

And writing this post, I learned that even writing things down doesn't necessarily prove accurate. As I went back to find the links to my first posts, I realized I was wrong. I went back to June and viewed the top post, but the first post was at the bottom of the page. So today isn't my anniversary at all. It was June 25th-Sarabeth's birthday. (Sarabeth, we share a special day!) And those were not my 1st two posts. Oh well, it is still good to look back.

Happy 17th Birthday Sarabeth!

Sarabeth is my 4th child. When she was little I received more unwanted advice from well-intentioned people than with any of my other children. It is a good thing I was not insecure about my parenting. Each child is different and the Lord is always there to guide and help me meet the needs of each individual.

In general, I parent my children the same. How hard is it with a baby? I love them and meet their needs through my sleep-deprived, bleary-eyed body with a mother's heart. I spend hours praying for wisdom and guidance as to what will help my child become all that He intends them to be. It seemed rather simple with the 1st 3.

But Sarabeth was different. She became affectionately known as the Velcro Baby. Nobody but I could hold her, not even her daddy. I could hardly run to the bathroom without her having a meltdown. On a rare occasion when she was napping I would plead with her father to let me run to the grocery store without taking her along. You see, she was such a cutie people were always stopping to talk to her as I'd push her in the grocery cart. Her immediate response to uninvited attention was shrieks. The strangers would then try to soothe her by touching her and talking to her further. At this point she would be clutching at my shirt as if her very life depended on it. It was sheer terror. Once-in-awhile her father would give in to my pleading as long as I promised to be back in record time. It didn't matter how long I was gone. I always returned to a red-faced man pushing a matching red-faced, teary-eyed baby at me as I walked through the door.

"You just need to leave her more often."
"How long can she cry?"
"Leave her with me and she'll get over this pretty quick."

I've never met so many baby experts in all my life. The advice continued well into toddlerhood and elementary school. I learned to just smile at the so-called experts as they'd throw out their solutions to my clingy child, all the while thanking God for His grace not to say something nasty back. Friends and family began to shake their heads at me, believing my child would never be normal.

To everyone's surprise, Sarabeth began to blossom into a very independant, well-adjusted young lady. Her quick-witted sense of humor evokes laughter from everyone. In 6th grade she left for a week to Outdoor Lab. Unlike some of my other children, she didn't ask me to come along. There were no tears as she said good-bye. The years of building security into her by letting her know I was there for her had paid off. It hadn't been my job to force her to stand on her own and be strong. By keeping her close and strengthing our relationship she developed the courage to do more than anyone thought possible. And isn't this what our heavenly Father desires for us?

Next Saturday Sarabeth will leave once again. This time for a month-long nanny stint in another state. I am so proud of how she has grown up. Happy Birthday Sarabeth!

Put It Back

She pushed her cart to the checkout and put her items up to be scanned. Her son was chattering away as he clutched a toy. It was obvious by his movements that something wasn't right. His speech was unintelligible. But he made happy sounds as he played with the toy.

"We have to pay for it now," the young mother told him. As she placed it on the counter, he began to grab for it and express his displeasure. "You can have it in just a minute." She kissed his forehead.

The clerk rang up the few items. The mother inserted her credit card into the machine.

"Do you have another card? This one has been denied." The clerk turned to the mother and boy.

"No, I don't." You could see the red in her cheeks as she blushed in humiliation. All the while, the boy was reaching for his new toy.

"I'm sorry, honey. We can't get it today." It was obvious that the boy did not comprehend what his mom was telling him. He did not understand why he couldn't have his toy back. His mother quickly swiped at her face with her hand to keep the tear from falling. She was a single mom and did not have any other money. "I'm sorry, let's go."

The boy began to cry and the mother couldn't soothe him. He just did not understand why the lady at the counter took his toy and he couldn't have it. His mom took him to the car.

Now, imagine that this was your child and your granchild.

Fun

We are NOT campers. In spite of this, one of our favorite things to do in the summer is having a cook-out in the mountains. Sarabeth's birthday is Sunday so she requested an early birthday dinner. And what do the girls do for fun?

Mountains

More pics from our cook-out:

Gosh, maybe we should actually try camping. This is Elisabeth and Hilary pretending to camp.

Hearts

What's In Your Heart?

What's in your heart? I know the "right" answer is Jesus. I was thrilled each time my kids could truthfully give the right answer. But this phrase has taken on a new meaning.

When Michael returned from New Jersey, he said he had something for me. He presented me with a lovely little black box with this inside:



It is a "What's In Your Heart" pendant. You purchase it empty, then fill with charms of your choice (according to how much you want to spend.) This is probably one of the single most romantic things Michael has ever done. He added our initials to it, chose a heart with my birthstones, a ruby for my son and grandson, and a diamond for my girls. How sweet is that? I was totally suprised and amazed.

Naturally, my girls each wanted one, so I went online to find information. Apparently these are just becoming popular. What made them popular was an actress from Desperate Housewives who wore one on a talk show. I've never seen the show, nor do I care to. But I am ever so happy with what's in my heart-both the pendant and my own.

Happy Dad's Day

Dad, remember when you took me and Greg fishing while my sisters stayed at home? I felt so important being able to go along with the guys.

Remember when you used to sneak up the stairs to catch us fooling around when we were supposed to be sleeping? I always heard you when your foot stepped on the one creaking stair. I'd immediately pretend to be sleeping while Carolyn would chatter away. She'd usually get in trouble and I'd listen while she vehemently tried to tell you I was really awake. You always believed the best about me.

Remember when you showed me how to play your steel guitar? My love of music developed because of the years spent listening to the whine and twang of that guitar. Hearing you play brought a soothing sense of security to my life. Music still does that for me.

Remember the Fridays we'd climb into the car and head off into the dark night? We'd make that 7 hour long drive to visit Grandad in California. It was often just the two of us and we'd drive back home Sunday afternoon. When I got my learners permit, you'd let me drive-even when you would be nodding off in the seat beside me. I knew you trusted me, even though I wasn't that good of a driver yet. I learned the joy and accomplishment of taking responsibility seriously.

Remember the times Grandad would call to see if you were driving up for the weekend? A few times you had to say no. Grandad would say he was going to die and hang up on you. When you tried to phone him back, he wouldn't answer your calls. I learned by watching you what it meant to love, honor, and respect your parents. After these calls, you'd turn to me and ask if I wanted to make the trip when nobody else wanted to. I'd say yes, and even though you were dead tired, we'd go. When Grandad said no, he didn't want to sell his house, even though we all knew he would never go home to live, you honored his request. When Grandad stubbornly refused to come live with us, you respected his wishes. It would have made your life so much easier if you'd just sold his house and forced him to move, but you didn't. Neither you nor I were big conversationalists, so the two of us would often sit or stand silently by Grandad's bed for hours at a time. I knew how much you loved us both.

Remember when you and Mom went to Germany for 2 years? I was a young mom with 2 children. You and I would write long letters back and forth. I am so thankful for that time. Our relationship grew. You related to me adult-to-adult. I was no longer a kid. You allowed me to grow up.

There is so much more, Dad, but I will pause here and say thanks. Happy Father's Day!

Seven Things I Say

A Meme

The Laundry Lady over at Under the Laundry Pile tagged me for this Meme. Since I've not been keeping up with my blog, I thought it'd be a good way to get going again. So here they are:

1. "Who wants to go to the store with me?...I'm taking "my" car."

2. "No, you can't go. I'm taking my car."

3. "Dear" (this has to be said dragged out, as in "deeeeeeear.") My kids told me once that I called their dad "dear." After vehemently denying it, I was caught red-handed later that same day. The reason I didn't think I said it was I suppose it isn't said very en'dear'ingly. I use dear when I am slightly irritated and yet trying to be nice. Otherwise, he is honey or sweetie-not dear.

4. "Dinner's ready."

5. "Who left the hair straightener on?"

6. "Did the mute button quit working?" Or "Can you turn that thing down?"

7. "I need a Starbucks."

I tag Supermom, Melanie, and Char.

Happenings

My baby is going to Washington D.C. tomorrow for 5 days. Yes, I realize she turned 14 recently. But something begins taking place in a mother's heart as she starts seeing big milestones in her youngest child. Two years ago she was in 6th grade. At the end of field day as I was trudging along after a hot, sweaty day, I realized that this was my very last field day. Is that possible? I'd been attending field day every single May for the past 18 years. I thought about the times of juggling multiple kids doing field day at once, running back and forth trying to catch important events of each child. Most of the time I missed the photos of the win and only got ones of them holding up a brightly colored ribbon.

Ok, if I was honest, I was a bit gleeful at the thought of no more field days. But there was still a twinge in my heart that they were over. I know that instead of field day, bigger adventures were coming up. So now here is Hilary getting ready to fly across the country for an entire week. I don't get to go and cheer her on, or take her picture as she is enjoying the sites. I will be at home thinking about her, praying for her, and hoping she grows from this opportunity and has fun.

So I'm off to help her pack for her trip and make sure she has everything she needs. Here are a couple of pics of hubby's flying experience.

Summer

Today is the first day of summer break. I just returned from the airport. My dear Michael will be gone for 10 days while I keep things on the homefront. I feel like this is the beginning of a new life. (No, not the 10 days without him, silly.)

Michael is renewing his pilot's license. When we first met (I should write about that sometime,) I was working at a small airport coffee shop, he had a plane. He'd wanted to join the AirForce to be a pilot, but his vision prevented it. So he went to work at a computer firm and learned to fly on his own. We married and began having children. When I became pregnant with our 3rd, we took the kids on a long flight in his 4 seater plane. It was after this, that Michael decided it was time to put flying aside for awhile. We'd outgrown the 4 passenger plane and could no longer afford this expensive hobby.

During this same time period, it was my desire to go on the mission field. I had a hard time envisioning Michael and I ministering together. But the one thing I could imagine was a Michael as a bush pilot. Our church financially supported a bush pilot who lived in Alaska. I loved hearing his stories and treasured them in my heart, all the while continuing to pray that this would be our lives one day. But as our family continued to grow, it seemed we moved further and further away from this dream. After several years, I quit asking God to send us.

This past year Michael watched several documentaries about pilots on humanitarian missions. His interest was sparked. One day it hit me. The desire to be a missionary came flooding back. I remembered the years of praying. Could we be nearing a time that Michael and I could go out in ministry? God hears each one of our prayers and always answers. Maybe this prayer was like that of Abraham and Sarah who didn't see their prayers for a son until many years past not only the time they asked, but past what was even probable. Sometimes our dreams are laid aside and forgotten. But they can be resurrected in a moment. I don't know if this desire will ever come to pass, but I am so very encouraged and excited to be reminded that God never forgets.

Michael's motto in life is "Keep the Blue Side Up." So that is what I expect him to do for the next 10 days. Keep the blue side up Michael!

Finally

Tomorrow is the last day that my sleep will be interrupted by beep, beep, beep, beep. (At least for awhile.) Friday is the official first day of summer vacation. Ahhh...to be able to sleep a bit longer, to not be so rudely awakened. I look forward to staying up late with the kids talking, playing Monopoly all night, or late night runs to Taco Bell or Starbucks. Relaxing dinners out on the deck where much laughter is heard and nobody rushes off to finish their homework. Instead we can take our evening walks around the neighborhood, breathing in the scents of lilac bushes, seeing the lush green of the grass and trees, hearing the gurgling water in the many streams, taking in the beauty of God's creation.

Summer, my most favorite season of all. As you can tell, I am not one of those crazy parents who signs their kids up for the many activities that some think are necessary. I've never believed it was a good thing to put my kids on a swim team. Why would we want to go to practice every morning and be at swim meets at 6 a.m. on Saturdays? Nor have we ever spent hours and hours at endless baseball games that run too late into the evenings. To some, these things are what they look forward to and what marks the beginning of summer. I look forward to lazy days. Didn't God design a dy of rest when he designed all of creation?

Alright. What was someone thinking when they wrote on my calendar, that Friday, my first day of leisure, "Pom Practice-7:00a.m.?" Ugh! That means not only will my sleep be broken by an incessant beeping, Hilary will need to be at the school a half hour earlier than on school mornings. And it is a 20 minute drive. I love summer.

S is for...

Along with Owlhaven Mary, I'm playing an ABC game y'all may have seen floating around. She has assigned me the letter S.

Ten Significant Words Beginning With S.

1. S is for Savior. I was born-again back in 1984 and my life has been forever changed.

2. S is for Sunday, the best day of the week.

3. S is for Sweetheart. That would be Michael, the sweetest man in all the world. The one who puts up with my tossing and turning at night and all of my crazy ideas.

4. S is for Sarabeth, my number 4 child. Sarabeth will be seventeen next month. She has grown into a very sensitive, smart young lady with a great sense of humor. Sarabeth is also the most shy of all my kids.

5. S is for Son. Christopher is my sunshine on a gloomy day.

6. S is for Seven, the number in our family. It is through my husband and children that I have become who I am today.

7. S is for Socks. I can't sleep without socks on my feet. It doesn't matter how warm or cold it is, even in the middle of summer. I wear socks to bed.

8. S is for Seasons. I get bored if things are always the same, so I love the season, whether the seasons of the year or seasons of life. So far the season of life that I'm in at the time, is always my favorite. I hope I can always say that.

9. S is for Surprises. I love surprises. No, not the kind that awaken you in the middle of the night, or something wet you step in while wearing socks. I also so enjoy it when I can do something special for someone else as a surprise. Something meaningful to make one smile, something totally unexpected. (Pleasant surprises have to be gifts from God.)

10. S is for S2000. Yep! That is my sunny, yellow, Honda convertible that Michael gave me for my birthday this year. The best times are driving it in the warm sunshine with him. Fun in the Sun.


Want to play this game? Email me, and I'll assign you a letter! Then leave a comment so others can see your top ten.

MEMORIAL DAY

May we always remember...



May we never forget...

Disrepect

I've been a little shocked lately at the disrespect that is so prevalant between parents and mostly teens. The part that concerns me the most is the disrespect I see from the parents. The parent then looks for a sympathetic ear when the teen doesn't do his chores or pay attention to anything the parent says.

Here are some recent examples that I've taken notice of: A mother (who shall remain annonymous) was chiding her daughter for not completing a chore.

"What is wrong with you? I told you to clean the kitchen. Do you think you are the only one in this house that is important? Don't ask me to take you to practice. If you won't do what I want you to do, I won't do what you want me to do."

This same mom turns to me and says, "My daughter doesn't show me any respect, so I'm going to make her life so miserable that she will learn to respect me."

Does this mom realize that she sounds like a 5 year old, throwing a temper tantrum because she didn't get her own way? The message she just spewed at her daughter is, "You are dumb. You are not important. I don't respect you because you don't respect me. (Reminds me of 2 little children playing. One gets mad and takes their toys home so the other can't play with them.)

By resorting to childish behavior, this mother has reinforced the same behavior in her daughter. So why does she think her daughter should be more mature, rise above the way she is being treated and show respect for the mother?

(Out of time, will have to finish this thought later.)

May

Am I the only one whose brain quits functioning in May??? Even when I write things down I forget. Yesterday I couldn't remember what I had planned for dinner and couldn't locate my menu plan. So I improvised with a meal meant for later in the week. At the last minute I realized I did not have olives. That is a main ingredient. So I ran up to the store in an attempt to get them and 2 other things I'd forgotten.

I was trying very hard to not browse. I tend to do that and come home with much more than I wanted. It is usually things we need, but it was getting way to close to dinnertime to be browsing. I grabbed the items and went straight to the checkout. Driving home I was so proud of myself for not getting distracted. That is until I was about to pull onto our block and realized I did NOT pick up olives. I'd gotten the other 2 items that could have waited until today. Grrr....so instead of pulling onto our street I drove back to the store.

I was sure glad I'd remembered to bring my water bottle with me, as it was very hot yesterday. When I arrived home, I gathered my purse, sunglasses and water bottle and went inside. Sarabeth asked me where I'd been. At that point I started laughing. She looked at me odd. I knew the reason she didn't know where I was, I'd left the grocery sack sitting in the trunk. Amazingly, I did get the dinner made and it wasn't midnight when we ate.

Crazy Pics

Some crazy pics because my kids like to goof off.

















Can you tell you who it is that like to goof off the most? Yes, somehow it is always the male species.

More Pics

Is it possible to get just one decent pic when everyone happens to be in one place? I doubt it. This is about the best family one we could come up with:



The kids without Ethan:



And here is my attempt at getting them all in a shot in the car:



Oh, and one last one of Christina and Ethan:



Tomorrow I will post the goofy ones.

Prom Season

It is prom season. For the past 9 years I've had at least one of my kids attending a prom, except this year. Not a one. I miss the fun of seeing the kids all dressed up. I always have a flash of a future wedding when I see them. (Scary.) But I don't miss the stress of buying dresses, finding and creating the perfect hair, nails, makeup, shoes....remembering two days before prom that a corsage wasn't ordered or running to the flower shop in midst of fixing hair to pick up the boutonniere.

In honor of the season, here are a couple of pics from previous years. (Sorry Christina, I didn't have one of yours as it was pre-digital cameras, but I will try to find one and scan it in.)


Christopher


Elisabeth

Ants

One hundred and sixty-four of them. Yes, I did count them. I didn't notice them at first when I was walking around on the laundry room floor. I was still wearing these slipper socks from the hospital. They have those fun rubber bumps on the bottom that sometimes feel funny when walking. So the extra crunches weren't initially noticed. After a bit I did notice and realized I'd been stepping on these:


I hate ants of any kind, especially ones that fly and are inside the house. I wasn't too happy about finding them. Of course in my wild attempt to sweep them onto the dustpan, I was knocking clothes off of hangers and onto piles of these ants. I would try to pick the clothing back up shake the attached ants off, only to land them in my basket of clean socks. So I amused myself by counting them as I picked them up.

Surgery Update

I actually came home feeling better than when I went into the hospital. I had IV antibiotics pre-surgery which, I believe, kicked out a sinus infection I was fighting along with the headache I'd had for days. I went in to have some uterine polyps removed. I found out today that 2 of them were "huge" according to the Dr. and he couldn't get those. He's waiting for the pathologist's report and I go in next Monday to discuss what's next. But I didn't have any of the previous side affects from anesthesia, for which I am thankful. Nor did I need to take any of the pain medication. This morning in my usual routine, half-asleep, I took my morning meds, including Allegra for allergies. Twenty minutes and a 1/2 a cup of coffee later, I realize I did NOT take Allegra but the Darvocet for pain. Hmmmm....I guess I did take pain medication, I just didn't need it.

Now I am going to share a gross factor, so anyone (especially of the male gender) will want to stop reading. For those who don't mind reading the gross details, continue on.

After this type of surgery, there is some bleeding involved. A pad is typically worn (of which females are very familiar.) Before dressing to go home, it seemed as if I was leaking. I asked the nurse who checked and said "no, the pad is dry." Okay, but I feel wetness. I find I am wearing disposable underwear, the kind the give you after having a baby. Fine. I get dressed and go home. Upon arriving home it still feels like something is amiss. Sure enough. I have blood on my clothes. I can't figure this out. The pads they give you are ginormous. Well, they are pretty useless when you find that they have been placed in your special undergarments with the side with the sticky facing up. The absorbent side is down and nobody ever bothered to even remove the plastic that exposes the sticky side. Made me wonder about who was caring for me when you can't even put a pad in correctly. (Hope I didn't offend anyone.)

There Is A Difference

Whenever I hear someone say the only reason boys and girls are different is because parents raise them that way, I just laugh. Only a fool would believe that just because you give boys dolls to play with or trucks to girls that they will act the same.

The first time I noticed a difference was when my 5 year old daughter and almost 2 year old son were playing on the swingset. Christopher was holding onto a swinging rope. He held it out to his big sister and said, "Here Chrisnina, your turn." As she reached for the rope, he immediately pulled it back laughing. "Hey, you said it was my turn. Hand it to me."

"Ok," he responded and held it out again. But just as it was almost in her grasp, he snatched it back laughing harder. I could hardly believe he knew hot to tease and he wasn't even 2. He did not learn this. There was something inborn that told him this was a very fun game to play with girls.

You see this behavior in boys once again around puberty when they start noticing girls. The female counterpart still does not find this teasing amusing and cannot figure out why a boy would tease. I was trying to explain this to my 8th grade daughter.

"Boys usually tease when they like a girl. Yes, they sometimes tease just to be mean, but most often it isn't because they hate you but it is their way of being affectionate. I know it is crazy, but don't let it hurt your feelings. Try to ignore it."

Ok, so it was dumb advice. But it is so hard to get them to understand that they are wired differently than boys. Boys view the world one way and girls another-it never changes. It is good. And no, it doesn't have to make sense.

Tomorrow

This time tomorrow, I will be at the hospital preparing for surgery. I am not worried or stressed about it, but later I might be. It will hit me when I get up and cannot have a cup of coffee. That will tend to throw my whole morning off and remind me that something is different. It is outpatient surgery, so I am planning to be back home tomorrow evening. And I expect to be fine by Wednesday. Is that asking too much?

How Does That Happen

Yesterday I spent over an hour writing a tribute to my mother. When I went to publish it, poof! It disappeared. I have yet to try again to put my thoughts into writing.

To me, written words are to be cherished. Spoken words can be forgotten, but once written down, they are forever. It's true that hateful, angry words spewed off of one's tongue are usually etched into a memory, but it is the soft, meaningful words that can be lost. I'm one of those who would still prefer an old fashioned, hand-written note to a phone call for just that reason. The tribute I typed here for my mom was to go into her card after I wrote it. So I will definately try again. Sigh. Happy Mother's Day Mom, and to all of the other moms too!

Weight Loss

I've been wanting to lose weight for some time. Diets have been started and stopped many times. I thought it would be so much fun to have dramatic before and after pictures. The hard part is always taking the dreaded before pics. I wanted to look my worst so I could later look great. At the same time, I dispise those before/after photos in which a woman has no makeup, bad hair and sweats, while the after photo shows a perfectly manicured one. I want to see the before fat, but not someone totally unkept. (And I really didn't want anyone else to take the picture and see how awful I really looked, as if they hadn't noticed. Sheesh!)

I don't believe I ever got my worst photo. Oh, I have plenty of very bad ones where I look horrendous, just none which shows enough flab. I've been working out and wanted to show muscle definition in the after photo.

I don't have those photos yet, but I've lost almost 20 lbs and still losing. I'm so excited. Michael has lost 22 lbs. Why didn't we take a fat photo together? Oh well, I'm going to be happy with the new slimmer us with or without the photos.

Cheesecake

I made a cheesecake yesterday. The recipe called for a liqueur. Not being very knowledgeable in alcoholic beverages, I ventured out to find one. I needed such a tiny amount and all I found were huge bottles. Then I happened upon this cherry syrup:

The little hat caught my attention (no doubt the marketing ploy.) I picked it up and went to pay for Milady Cherry Liqueur. She did indeed look like a little lady wearing the hat. At the checkout counter I found some small bottles of liqueur, but at this point, I just could not put back this cute little Miss.

After making the cheesecake, the bottle was sitting on the counter. My daughter was helping me clean the kitchen.

"What is this little hat for?" I told her it went on top of the bottle and I supposed that she could throw it out as it wasn't necessary to save it. But before doing so, I wanted to show her how cute it was and put it back atop the bottle. At that point, there is no way I could throw it out.

"You know, if you girls were still little, I'd give you this hat for your barbies." Sarabeth responded, "Yeah, Mom, I know. I was just thinking the same thing." Immediately we were both transported back to Barbie Land.

Growing up, I had the best dressed barbies. My mother and grandmother would sew or knit clothing for them. The outfits were coveted by all of the neighbor girls and friends who had the privilege of playing barbies at our home. My sisters and I were so inspired that we spent hours ourselves creating our own clothing for them when we learned to sew. I don't think we played dolls as much as we made clothes and just dressed them.

My oldest 2 daughters had the privilege of playing barbies while my grandmother was alive. Once again, my girls had the most fashionably dressed dolls around. They too spent time creating clothing, even when it was just cut-out fabric with holes for arms and string tied around the waists. (I did not inherit the seamstress genes.) But in all those years, I don't recall ever having hats to complete an outfit. This hat would have been to die for.

Chatty

I learned yesterday that it is best to avoid certain individuals who can't seem to speak without using hand gestures. I had to have my blood drawn and I made the mistake of being chatty to the lab tech. She got the needle in my arm and I must have said something that stirred her emotions. She reacted by trying to say something with the hand waving technique, completely forgetting that her hands were busy with a very sharp needle in my vein. She instantly realized it was a bad idea and apologized while digging around to find the vein that escaped. Next time I have to have my blood drawn I'll either be very quiet or run the other way if I notice a hand talker.

Glasses

Here are the new glasses! This was taken after we made cookie dough and Ethan is in the midst of devouring as much of the dough as he can before the cookies are baked.

Ethan's Glasses

Christina called me.

"Mom. Ethan has to get glasses."

"How can they tell? How do they figure out what a child needs when he can't tell them?" My curious, a bit skeptical of their accuracy, brain wants to know. I'm wondering what I would end up with if I had my eyes examined without the "which looks better, A or B questions.

"Mom, I don't want him to have to wear glasses. How am I supposed to get him to wear them?"

"Oh, I think he will like them. Remember how much he loves to put on those safety goggles?" I'm trying to be positive while walking through the grocery store talking on my cell phone. I hadn't noticed the pain in her voice.

"I really didn't want him to have to wear glasses. Why can't Ethan get a break? He doesn't need one more reason for people to stare at him." I suddenly realized what she was saying and could hear tears in her quivering voice. "Not very many 3 year olds wear glasses. When they do, people stare. I just want him to look cute so he is more accepted.

I stopped walking. I didn't have an answer. I'm standing in the middle of the grocery store with tears welling up in my eyes. I want to hug my daughter. I want to hold my grandson and make things better. I know wearing glasses isn't the end of the world. I want to tell my daughter the plus side of the glasses, that Ethan will enjoy life more. We won't see him crossing his eyes when he tries to focus. But at that moment she isn't looking for answers. She just needs someone to hear what she is feeling and to understand. When there are no words, communicating via telephone falls drastically short. So I stand there hugging my phone, with no words coming out. I hope she understands the meaning.

When it rains it pours

I hadn't cleaned out the refrigerator in over 2 weeks. Ick! I probably would have put if off a bit longer, but I could not cram a single more thing into it. It was grocery shopping day and so it was a necessity.

I began emptying plastic containers of tidbits of leftovers. Nothing was growing anything furry, nor did I find anything unrecognizable. (I'm doing better people.) But why did I save 1/4 cup black beans? It's not like one of the teens is going to open the fridge, say "yum! black beans," open the lid and have a snack. Thanks to my temperamental garbage disposal I emptied the containers into the trash can. I found out the hard way once, after cleaning out my 'fridge. I poured the leftover down the infamous garbage disposer. Afterall, isn't that what the name implies? Not sure if it was the true culprit or the pipes that regurgitated, but the stuff did NOT go down. Two hundred dollars later, the plumber asks if I had just cleaned out my refrigerator. "How did you know?" I queried. Apparently, it happens all of the time. But I've been diligent ever since.

Now who leaves a half-eaten individual pudding container with a spoon in it? Are we really so spoon deprived that she was afraid we wouldn't have any when she came back to finish it off? (Which of course, never happened.) Somehow in the midst of dumping garbage I managed to knock the can over. Out spilled the gooey, slimy contents all over the kitchen floor. That pudding container flew across the room flinging chocolate goo onto the cabinets. I tried to be thankful. At least the can didn't go down my carpeted stairs...wet coffee grounds are especially hard to get off that beige carpet. (Ask me how I know.) Why is my garbage can now protesting and regurgitating? Is the food that bad?

At this point Michael walks in with a gentleman to get an estimate on some work that needs to be done. I smiled and kept right on cleaning. I came across the last container. It was saurkraut. The odor was quite strong. I had just emptied the trash outside, so decided this one could go down the garbage disposal and hopefully the smell with it. I sent it down that grinding hole and tossed a small squishy orange after it hoping to mask the odor. I was finally finished. Off to the laundry room to attack the next chore.

That was when I noticed a strange scent. Walking into the laundry room it was unmistakable. There next to the washer, on top of my freshly folded clothes was saurkraut and water. Darn! It wasn't that nasty disposal afterall. It was the pipes that had it in for me. They were the true perpetrator in the food and water assaults. The floor was also swimming in water mixed with the earlier contents of my purging of the fridge. I had a doctor appointment in a half an hour and I did NOT have time for this. I won't bore you with how the rest of the day went, but after picking up kids, school meetings and such, I finally got back to getting that mess cleaned up sometime around 11p.m.

So this morning, I found a repeat of regurgitated water from my coffee maker on my counter. I wanted to cry. Something about water mixed with anything chunky has it in for me. It was my own fault. I forgot to put a filter in, so the ground clogged the hole causing the brown liquid to overflow onto the counter where I have the lunch and breakfast stuff laid out. I give! I will not try to mix any kind of food, grounds, or anything not liquid with water again. I will forever keep them separated and never contaminate a receptacle for water.

Extravagant Love

Extravagant: Given to lavish or imprudent expenditure
Exceeding reasonable bounds
Extremely abundant; profuse
Unreasonably high; exorbitant

So what does extravagant love mean? Growing up, I knew my parents loved me. When I got married, I hoped my husband loved me. When I surrendered my life to Christ, I was overwhelmed with the thought that He not only loved me, but thought of me and saw something of value. When you value something, you invest in it. You spend time caring for it. Nothing is too great a price to protect it. How many people feel lavishly loved? How many of us know what it means to be extravagantly loved?

Speaking with others, some mention intense feelings and emotion of love when they found "the one." While dating, they felt valued-that nothing was too unreasonable for the other to give in order to express that love. I can't say that Michael and I had an intense, passionate dating/relationship experience. Sometimes I look back and wonder if we even liked each other. We were both self-centered and protective of our hearts.

I did not feel treasured when we married, like I was so deeply loved he couldn't live without me. It was almost as if he just put up with me. Truthfully, he probably felt the same way. I spent years trying to be the perfect wife, hoping somehow I'd earn his undying affection. I came to understand that you cannot make someone love you. It is a choice on their part. Love cannot be forced.

Life has changed. Every day I wake up, the only way to describe what I am living is in Extravagant Love. Michael tells me the sweetest things. He'll say I'm the best thing that has ever happened in his life. He asks, "have I told you today that I love you," or "Did I tell you today how beautiful you are?" And when I look into his eyes, I can see it. He is passionate.

This passionate love is seen as he has lavished gifts upon me. Money is very important to him. He has always been frugal and only invests in what he believes will benefit him or something that will retain it value or increase in value. He does not waste his precious resources. Never has. For him to be so extravagant, shouts to me "I am worthy of his love." (Which of course I'm not. But I do feel like a rare gemstone that he is pouring everything he has into so it will keep its value and preciousness.)

I've been given a love I never believed would be mine. I cannot believe that after being with this man for 23+ years that I could love him more and more each day. I want to give this treasured feeling, extravagant love back to him. I want to share it with everyone I know and those I don't.

I believe this is just a glimpse of the love that God wants to pour out on me and you. When love is nurtured, it grows. It is like a tender plant. With proper care it will flourish and multiply. It will reproduce its own kind. It will bear fruit. And it gives back to the original source of love in its own extravagant way. I don't want to be a reflection of this love. I want to live it overflowing.

Men, Cars, Reversing

I am curious. Has anyone else noticed this? Go to any parking lot. It doesn't matter if it is the grocery store, the mall, a church. Any parking lot will do. Watch for awhile. How often do you see a female backing into a parking spot? So far, I've yet to find one. If you see that reverse light go on, the driver will almost certainly be male. Is driving in reverse akin to driving fast? Is there an adrenaline rush when the shift to R is made?

When my son was home over Easter weekend, I let him drive my car. (Does it sound like my thoughts are centered around this car? I suppose if you count 3 dreams last week, I do think about it a lot.) Anyway, each time Christopher got home, he'd back the car into the garage. He's a pro at backing up. Yes, that means he gets paid. He works as a Valet Parking Attendant. Michael thought it was actually a good idea for my car to be backed into the garage. That way when I opened my car door, it wasn't next to his car.

I've never much liked spending much time in reverse-only when necessary. I may occasionally get an adrenaline rush, but it is pure fear. I suspect this comes from having driven large vehicles for so long. When you drive a full size van, there are blind spots when backing up. That can be scary. The same is true of a Suburban. It is also true in my S2000 if the top is up. (Truthfully, I've only driven twice with the top up. Once was Monday when it was snowing.) But with the top down, it is pretty safe to reverse.

I'm not an expert reverser yet. I can never get the car in the same place twice. This morning Michael said he reversed my car into the garage. What? You drove my car before I got up? "No," he replied. "I just pulled it out and backed it in. I wanted to see if it was as hard as you make it look."

"And, was it?"

"Nope," he grinned. "It's exactly where it should be."

It Happens

It was bound to happen. At least that is what everyone keeps telling me. Last week my baby turned 1 month old. (Yes, my baby is yellow, and some people refer to it as a sports car.) I've been taking such good care of it and its pristine interior/exterior. Saturday, after washing her up real nice, I was feeling quite generous. So I took my 16 year old out to teach her to drive a standard transmission.

She is currently driving my old baby, a 1999 Chevy Suburban. I took darn good care of her too. After 6 years I'd had no accidents, no fender-benders, hardly a door ding in that big white truck. I did manage to catch the side mirror-twice backing out of the garage. It chipped a bit off of the plastic. (Whose idea was it to put plastic mirrors on a truck????) When Michael found out those mirrors were $600 to replace, and since I'd bumped it twice, the chipped and cracked mirror is the only reminder of any negligence to my truck.

Last Tuesday, after arriving at school, I received a teary-eyed phone call from Sarabeth.

"What's wrong" I asked.

"Can I come home?" She barely managed to squeeze out.

"What's wrong?" I repeat.

"When I was pulling into my parking spot I hit Jen's car. It broke her tail light out. I went into the school to find her. The worst part is when she saw me she hugged me. She told me she was having a terrible day and was happy to see me and needed a hug. I told her, that her day was about to get worse..."

Michael handled it all so well. Very different than when our oldest was driving our big blue van and she stopped at a stop sign and her brother's head hit the windshield, cracking it. She didn't drive again for 2 years. This time, when Sarabeth arrived home, Michael took her in his arms and held her as she cried. He let her know that now that she'd had her first incident she could quit worrying about it. Also, that the first one was "free," he'd take care of it. (I did cringe when I saw the slightest mark on my old faithful truck bumper. She was showing the first scars of teenage driving.)

Back to Saturday. Since she'd had such a rough week with cars, I thought Sarabeth would enjoy learning to drive mine. We arrived at a vacant, recently closed Target parking lot. I taught the basics of clutching, shifting, braking. My little flame handled it well, stalling only a few times, a bit of grinding, revving the engine and if Sarabeth could just remember to take her foot off of the gas after pushing in the clutch. Driving got a little smoother. I was starting to get sunburned, so decided maybe we'd gotten far enough to let the new shifter drive my car home. And then it happened. We hit a dip a bit hard, going too fast. The car scraped on the bottom. It was a terrible scratching sound. I'd heard this sound before in Michael's car. His sits low to the ground and scrapes if you get to close to those concrete parking barriers. Ok, we'd survive. I let her drive home. We made it with only 1 stall.

I took my keys back and was happy to have them back in my possession. It wasn't until later when Michael asked me if I'd parked to close to something that I even questioned that there might have been damage.

When I looked I wanted to cry. The whole front of my car, that beautiful yellow fiberglass was scraped with black showing through. It's only 1/2-1 inch, but it is across most of the front. Sigh. I wasn't as kind as Michael. I didn't yell or get outwardly angry, but I was sullen the rest of the day. It wasn't as if this was a precious golden calf. Or was it?

Funeral

I'm on my way to a funeral. I received a phone call last night that an old friend had lost her son. He was 29 and had custody of his two young boys. It was very unexpected. He had a heart attack. His 4 and 6 year old found their father in the bathroom and couldn't help him. The only phone, a cell phone was in their father's pocket. They waited the night out until their grandmother arrived the next day to find her son dead on the bathroom floor. The children sad because they could not help their father. They couldn't even unlock the front door to go for help.

We don't know what tomorrow holds, or even today. I am thankful for the breath I am breathing, in spite of allergies. I won't complain because of this temporary discomfort. It will pass. The pain of losing a son will not. I cannot imagine, nor will I pretend to comprehend what my friend is walking through. Honestly, I don't even want to think about the devastation. But I will. However feeble my hands may be, I will offer my support. I will stand and allow her to lean. Knowing the only way any of us stand or walk, or take our next breath, is by God's grace, we will hold onto Him together.

Upside Down

At times in our life, we feel as if our world has been turned upside down. Maybe what we don't realize, is that we are just looking at it from the wrong perspective. It might take the help of someone else for us to notice that our world really isn't upside down, we just aren't looking at it the way others see it. My kids showed me a clear picture of why I am feeling so out-of-sorts.



So there really isn't anything wrong in my world, just me seeing things wacky.

"For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
Nor are your ways My ways,” says the LORD.
For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
So are My ways higher than your ways,
And My thoughts than your thoughts." (Is.55:8-9)

He's My Son

I was driving in my car, the top down, listening to the radio. I was thinking about this weekend. Christopher is flying in for Easter. He hasn't been home since Christmas. Then this song came on the radio. Tears filled my eyes. I haven't heard this song for over 2 years. I remembered the last time this song played. I was driving then also, but instead of tears, I erupted into full-fledged sobbing.

It was August. I had the privilege of driving 900 miles with Christopher to see him off to college. We had some great talks along the way. But, have you ever been to Phoenix in August? It was 115 degrees. Christopher's dorm was on the 3rd floor. No elevator, just concrete steps that were outdoors. So up and down we went carrying boxes, bedding, more boxes, computer, a small refrigerator, boxes, microwave and even more boxes in the blistering heat. When we finally carried the last load up those steps we sat in his room trying to cool down. The air conditioning was running, but I sure didn't feel cooler. I was dripping wet with sweat, red in the face and dog-tired. I said good-bye and took my last trip down the stairs.

I was holding up pretty well. Mostly, because I was wiped out and wanting to cool down. While I was driving, that song came on the radio. I melted into heap of emotion and cried my eyes out.

"He's My Son"

I'm down on my knees again tonight,
I'm hopin' this prayer will turn out right.
See, there is a boy that needs Your help.
I've done all that I can do myself
His mother is tired,
I'm sure You can understand.
Each night as he sleeps
She goes in to hold his hand,
And she tries
Not to cry
As the tears fill her eyes.

Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.

Sometimes late at night I watch him sleep,
I dream of the boy he'd like to be.
I try to be strong and see him through,
But God, who he needs right now is You.
Let him grow old,
Live life without this fear.
What would I be
Living without him here?
He's so tired,
And he's scared
Let him know that You're there.

Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.

Can You hear me?
Can You see him?
Please don't leave him,
He's my son.

What will they think of next?

It was a gorgeous spring day yesterday. My girls were sunning themselves and found the sidewalk chalk. They decided to pose and then outline their shadows. It was quite amusing. Elisabeth, my gymnast, had to take her poses to the next level.



I didn't get pics of their chalk outlines, but am going to try before they are all erased. I love that the kids still find ways to entertain themselves without getting into trouble.

I'm A Godmother

When my niece was born, I had the privilege of becoming a godmother. I take my responsibility seriously, and feel it is important to invest in her life. I want to do everything I can to help her grow up and use her gifts and talents. I'm trying to figure out if she has some artistic ability like my mom, her grandmother.

Twenty-Five Years

Twenty-five years ago, at 5:04 p.m. I became a mom. My little girl weighed in at a mere 5 lbs. 6 oz. Because of her low weight, she was whisked away shortly after her birth. I caught just a glimpse of her and the first words out of my mouth were, "She's real!" To which the reply came, "yeah, they quit giving out fake ones a long time ago." I don't believe I'm the only one to utter something foolish at seeing a newborn. My mom says the first time my dad laid eyes on me, he remarked, "she looks like a dried-up monkey without a tail." Thanks, Dad. (Now I know where I get it from.)

Happy Birthday Christina!

Looking at that tiny newborn, I was filled with hopes and dreams for her. Seeing her as an adult, I couldn't be more proud of the lovely lady she has become. Christina is a mom herself now. A mom's life isn't usually described as easy, but Christina has some added challenges. She is a single mom to a child with special needs. Watching her as she so lovingly cares for him, I am overwhelmed with emotion. God couldn't have picked a more perfect mom for Ethan.

Duct Tape

I've always heard men can fix just about anything with duct tape. The funny thing is, I have never seen my darling fix anything with duct tape. He prefers to fix things the "proper" way. (Probably why I married him.)

I, on the other hand, love duct tape. Recently, when I went out to his work bench to borrow it, I found we had RED. Now isn't that a fun color! My lil' Ethan snapped a little plastic piece off of the back of my MP3 player. (No, I don't have an IPOD.) So with just a little strip of red, I can wear it again while working out. Thankfully, the back is against my skin so it doesn't show.

Another creative use for duct tape is a quick hem for pants. I've done this for years with jeans. I am not very tall and it is hard to find the right length. Plus, I like to wear different shoes. So if I'm in the mood for heals, great. If I want to wear flats, out comes the duct tape. Voila! In just a few minutes, my jeans are the perfect length. I've also been known to hem pants in the old fashioned way, but too many times have cut them off to short. After sewing, tearing it out and resewing the smallest possible hem they were still too short even for flats. (At least without my kids saying they would die of embarrassment if I wore them in public.) So I revert to duct tape.

Last week I decided to wear a pair of black slacks to church. My toenails were not polished, so I couldn't wear a dress and open shoes. I pulled out a pair of black pants that were new. Ugh! Way too long. Out came the red duct tape. Worked great, until I decided to wear the same pair of pants this week.

It was beautiful outside, I was having a great hair day as I strutted into church. I saw a few heads turn and watch me walk by. They must have noticed my hair. It wasn't until after much singing and I sat down that I noticed the bunched up red duct tape hanging off the bottom of my black pants. At that point I was wishing we'd had black duct tape. Of course once the tape has been tromped on it is folded on itself and there is no way to unfold it. It was useless to try to pry it apart and restick it. Should I sit there in church and pull off the rest of the tape in the front so each leg would drag freely all around? Or should I just let it drag in the back with the possibility of pulling the other pieces loose?

Let's just say, I'm going to cut off the bottom of those pants and try hemming them with needle and thread. The stickiness leftover after the duct tape has been removed on slacks is a magnet for dirt and does NOT wash off. (I never had this trouble with jeans before.) So I will never hem slacks again with red duct tape. Well, maybe if I can find black duct tape.

It's Time To Go

As a young mom of lots of kids, I tried unsuccessfully to have a beautiful, well-maintained home. I very much wanted my home to be a reflection of Christ. We didn't own a single piece of new furniture. We had a little bit of shabby chic going on, much more of "shabby tacky" than chic.

With each pregnancy, I wished for an old fashioned rocking chair. My dear husband wondered why I would ever want to give up this lovely swivel rocker for a hard wooden one. Well, probably because it was a lime green, velvet, 20 year old chair that matched nothing in the room. The brown tweed couch wasn't particularly attractive either, but it did match the brown loveseat. I have to admit, the rocker was comfy to rest in at 2 a.m. feedings. And yes, there were times I remember my head must have leaned back and I actually dozed during some of those feedings. The chair was an eyesore, but it became my comforter.

I grew accustomed to the squeak at one particular juncture in the rock. Rather than letting it be an irritant, I imagined it as a sing-song tune that helped my babies get back to sleep. That song helped rock sick children back to health. Could a hard wooden rocker do that?

One day I walked in the room to find Christopher sitting behind the chair. He had just learned to write his name. What better way to practice than on this bright green canvas in permanent marker? I wanted to cry. As if our furniture wasn't shabby enough, I now had to live with graffiti. And in my own living room. There on the back of the rocker, scrawled out in 5 year old penmanship were the letters:

C H R I S T

Either I interrupted his writing, or he ran out of room, but that is as far as Christopher got on his name.

I'd wanted my life and home to be a reflection of Christ and unbeknownst to me, I had a visual reminder, every day of that desire. Some days I had visitors. I wondered what they thought of our chair with Christ's name emblazoned on the back. I knew they saw it. But more importantly, did they see Christ in me?

I wish I could show you a picture, but after 16 years the letters have faded. All that remains is a shadow from a "miracle product" cleaner used a few years later. It actually removed some of the ink, and a bit of color from the chair. The chair is still here. How do you throw out Christ's chair?

When we moved into our present house, we invested in a few pieces of matching furniture. Christ's chair became a permanent fixture in Christopher's room. That room has now become Hilary's room. She has no fondness for an old worn-out chair that is no less than 30 years old. It now resides in a corner of the family room. I think it is time to let it go to the place where all good, completely used up furniture goes. But nothing will replace the memories. And although it is not visible, I know I wear CHRIST's name. I hope that it shines as brightly as those letters stood out, on the back of the chair. Thanks Christopher for sharing your name and Christ with so many. I'm glad you two share the same name!

Starbucks

Now look at this grin at getting a Starbucks drink. Imagine his horror when he found out it was NOT coffee. His smile faded pretty quick and he didn't drink any of it. How do I convince him he does NOT like coffee???

Ignore

I know I haven't been keeping up of late. Do you ever get hung up on a post? I have one saved in my drafts and keep getting stuck. Why does this happen? I believe I find myself wrestling with thoughts. How open do I really want to be? What will others think? Is now a good time to open the door for all to look in at my inner self? Then I go and write something like this and I kick myself. Now someone is going to be waiting with baited breath for some shocking event or news. Perhaps they expect me to reveal some dark secret. Now I've set others up for disappointments. Grrrr....and I shouldn't really care....or should I? Others will ask, "is this it? Was she talking about this?" And maybe I will never post it at all and the thoughts will forever be banished to the little drafts folder. Let's pretend I never posted at all. I'm going to ignore my draft folder and move on and maybe never pull it out. It will make posting so much easier.

Grandkids are the best!

I've always loved kids, and always wanted a houseful. (My house seems to be so empty these days-only 3 here full time.) On the weekend Christina (my oldest) and my 3 year old grandson are usually here. They didn't come down this week, so Michael and I decided to take my new car for a spin. (Good excuse to go visit.)

Ethan was so excited to see us. What a wonderful feeling to be on the other side of that excitement. I love him every bit as much as any of my own children, but without the responsibility of training him up. I don't have to worry whether or not he will be spoiled if he gets a cookie, or even if he says please and thank-you. I can just enjoy him.

I forgot my camera, but got a couple of pics with my phone. (Hence the poor quality.) But you can probably see from Ethan's expression how much fun he had riding in Gramma's new car with Grandpa and playing at the park.

I love Colorado

Friday evening I was standing at my kitchen window doing dishes. I looked up and this is what I saw:





There were 6 altogether, but by the time I grabbed the camera, I couldn't get them all in the shot. I took it through the window and the screen blurred it a bit. There was one right up next to the front door, but he moved when I tried to take his picture.

Happy Spring!

The First Day of Spring in Colorado

Happy 14th Birthday Hilary!

Hilary arrived 14 years ago today. Being the youngest of 5, we knew she'd be fast in order to keep up with her siblings. We left for the hospital at 3:30a.m. I awoke to 1 hard contraction and knew it was time. I had 1 more before we left. The hospital was 30 minutes away.

Upon arrival, nurses scurried about rather quickly. They skipped a lot of the usual protocol and called my doctor immediately. He was there just before 5:00a.m. He broke my water, stepped out of the room to change his shoes, and out came this beautiful baby. One nurse ran over and picked her up, the other screamed out the door for the doctor.

Things settled down and it was time to pick out a name. We didn't know if we were having a boy or girl. I was leaning towards boy since we had 1 and 3 girls. Ever since our 3rd pregancy, Michael had another boy's name picked out, so I was sure we'd use it. She was definately not a boy.

Michael left the hospital with the baby name book in hand. He came back with 3 names. Catherine, Theresa, and Hilary.

Early in the pregnancy, as I prayed for my baby in utero, I felt the Lord tell me she would be a child of joy. I looked up the meaning of the names. Hilary comes from the same root word as Hilarious, and indeed meant happiness and joy.

Happy Birthday Hilary Rose, our bundle of joy and laughter.



P.S. This was Hilary in these silly pics.

Nail Biter

Have you ever had to interview for a job, try-out for a part in a play, audition for a musical, or try to make the team? If so, you know how stressful the waiting to find out can be. The only thing worse is when it is one of your children-or 2.

This week SB tried out for high school Concert Choir. Thursday afternoon the new "Concert Choir List" would be posted for all to see. That is when the world knows if you were successful or failed at your tryout. It is the best and worst of tmes for a teen.

Also on Thursday, Hilary was trying out for the Pom line. She would find out sometime that evening. As long as both kids were successful, life would be grand. But what if one makes it, while the other doesn't? Or if both fail? These are those times of character building.

We've been down this road before with our kids. Last year SB tried out for concert choir and didn't make it. She was one of the few who checks the list and walks away feeling the sting of rejection. A past failure makes it especially hard on the parent who has encouraged, cheered them to practice, work hard, and try again. At your urging they attempt once more to achieve success. And you wonder if it was the right thing. Fear can sneak into your heart at the thought that it could happen again.

When Elisabeth was Hilary's age, she tried out for Cheerleading. The next morning at school the list was posted for every hall-walker to see, each and every student in the entire school would know if she made it or not. I was having a bible study at my home when the phone call came in.

"Excuse me, I have to answer this one." They all knew that I was waiting to hear news. I picked up the phone. "Hello?" Silence. Uh oh, this was not good. A sniffle. I knew there were tears, I understood the feeling of not being one of the chosen. I wanted to cry too, but I was the mom. I was supposed to make things better, to offer up words of encouragement, help her to know that everything would be alright. The sun would still rise tomorrow. But at this moment in time, this is a 14 year olds entire world.

It was especially difficult because her best friend made the Varsity Squad. It took the entire next year to convince her to try again. I could hardly breathe when I found myself once again waiting for that phone call. This time was better, but not the best. She had made the JV Cheerleading squad. The following year was the most celebrated as she made THE list of Varsity Cheerleaders.

Michael and I sat at the kitchen table just waiting. Sarabeth, who had gotten her driver's license on the previous Friday, had driven to school. She was afraid she might miss the bus since the list wouldn't be posted until after school. She did not want to look too anxious or excited by rushing to the list to avoid being late for the bus, so we allowed her to drive.

Would she phone when she knew? If she didn't call, was that good news or bad? If she was late, was that because she was crying and had to compose herself before driving home? Or did that mean she simply had been rejoicing with her peers, causing her tardiness? Elisabeth joined us in the wait and shared in the experience of the parents on the other side of the waiting. We reminisced about her times of tryouts and we waited.

Sarabeth appeared in the open doorway. I saw just a hint of a smile. She shared her news and broke out in a run. We embraced joyfully! Her hard work and practice had paid off. She was now a proud member of the Concert Choir. Now, the second waiting began.

Hilary shared in the waiting. She'd returned from her try-outs and was home. Some of her friends waited at the school for the posting. It was to happen around 11:30p.m. A friend had promised to call as soon as she knew.

Hilary didn't think she did as well as she could have. But she was still hoping to make the JV Pom Line. She mentioned that her friends had said if they didn't make Varsity, but made JV, they wouldn't do it at all. In fact, they were asked that question as part of the interview process. Hilary had answered of course she would be on JV if she didn't make the Varsity Squad.

11:00p.m.
Her phone began to ring. "Hilary?" The voice was loud enough we could all hear it. "You made it!"

"Which did I make?"

"Varsity!"

There were shouts and cheers. I breathed a sigh of relief as I hugged her. Two celebrations in one day. I could go to sleep peacefully tonight. I didn't have any soothing of hurt feelings to take care of. Not this time. But nothing changes. Even with my children grown, I will always be here, whether it is a job interview or waiting on the successful delivery of a child. I will be here to cheer and shout, or to help pick up the broken pieces and see them put back together for a future success. That's a parent's job till the day we die.

Busy with my Birthday

I haven't been around so much this week. I have a new birthday present that has been consuming all of my time. My kids aren't so happy, as they cannot really enjoy it with me, at least not as a family or together-just one at a time. Here is that all-consuming gift:

Making a Chocolate Cake

Who designed a mixer with only 2 beaters? It must have been someone with only 2 children. I think a mixer should have the same number of beaters as a house has children. Anyone with children, who has ever mixed a chocolate cake, knows of the fight that ensues over the coveted beaters.

For years I tried to come up with a way to satisfy all of the chocolate cake batter, licking kids. Two beaters, 1 spatula, and 2 kids to share licking the bowl was how I usually divided the chocolate goo. But no matter how I tried to leave the same amount on the spatula as on the beaters and twice as much stuck to the inside of the bowl, everyone still wanted the beaters. I think it is because they are so much more fun to lick and it takes longer to eat, making it much more savory.

I even tried to bake my cakes while some of the kids were at school. But invariably when the cake was being consumed, someone would ask who had gotten the privilege of licking the beaters. Of couse the recipients would gleefully respond it was them. I'd have some unhappy campers. Try using the mixer when the kids are outside playing. It doesn't matter, they will hear the whir and come running.

Maybe I'll redesign the Mixer. And for my friend with the 13 children, maybe I can make it with mini-beaters or something. To make it perfectly fair, every kid should get one to lick to his heart's content.