When my children were little I prayed for them when they were sick. For every scraped knee and bumped head, we asked for God's healing. My first goal was to get them to seek God to meet their needs. Secondly, I wanted them to realize that God cared about them and their individual needs, that he wanted them to be whole and healthy. But I also hoped that they would experience first hand that He is our healer and He still performs miracles.
I must admit, sometimes my faith was not as big as that tiny mustard seed. I remember the night we were standing in the grocery store checkout. I had 3 small children with me and I was exhausted. Distracted and not watching, I pushed the cart forward, running into Christina's little 5 year old foot. I felt awful. This has happened to me and it hurts! "I'm sorry," I blurted out. Before I finished speaking, she dropped to the floor, clutched her foot and wailed, "Pray for me! Pray for my foot! You ran it over!" Tears began running down her face.
I'd like to say I immediately ran to her and prayed. I did not. I couldn't leave the baby in the front of the cart while I attended to her. I glanced around. Everyone around me was watching. They could hear her as she began pleading again, "pray for me! Pray for my foot, I think it's bleeding!" Two year old Christopher was already poised beside her ready to pray. The commotion became louder, more heads turned. I'm sure they waited to see what I would do. In a half whisper I choked out, "can Christopher just pray for you?"
"Nooooo, pleeeease, Mom. Praaaay for me." I pulled the baby out of her seat. My cheeks felt hot. All eyes were on me. I could have been a great witness to all of the observers. I wasn't. I knelt beside my daughter, with the baby dangling to one side and said, "can we pray in the car?"
My normally quiet, non-dramatic daughter seemed to be going for an Academy Award. "Noooo, I can't walk on it. Praaaay that it isn't broken! It hurts!" I laid my hand upon her foot, closed my eyes and somewhere between a whisper and hushed voice I prayed, "Lord Jesus, please heal Christina's foot." Her sad eyes looked up as if to say, "that's it? After all the effort it took to get you to pray, that's it???" But she didn't say that. She rubbed her foot, stood up and proclaimed, "I think its feeling better."
I was deeply humiliated. Was I ashamed to let strangers know that as a mother I prayed for my children's owies? I felt like Peter, when he denied he knew the Lord. I found myself apologizing to Christina and Christopher when we got to the car for not having more faith.
I knew in my head, that God heals. I've read the stories of Jesus healing blind men, opening deaf ears, even raising people from the dead. I believed it was right to pray for healing. James tells us to pray for the sick. Friends would share glorious stories of their personal experience of being healed and touched by the Great Physician. I had not witnessed the miraculous. I continued to pray for accidents, sickness and to teach my children to pray.
In the wee hours of the morning, holding a sick baby and rocking in the chair, I'd cry out to the Lord to touch her. I'd ask Him to remove the pain of an ear infection, comfort an upset tummy, lower a fever. There wasn't anything dramatic. But I could rest, knowing that He was in charge and I wasn't. He would watch over my children. It was my job to pray for them.
The funny thing is, I had a hard time praying for myself. I can count on one hand the number of times I was so sick that I actually crawled back in bed in the middle of the day. Then I would lie in bed and pray that my family could survive without me for a few hours. It wasn't that I never got sick. But how does a mother lie in bed with 5 children to care for? It has to be bad. One time it was. I had to ask Michael to come home from work. I knew I wasn't going to make it through the day standing up. After giving him suggestions of what he could do with the little ones and what time the others needed to be picked up from school, I laid down in my bed. It felt weird, but after a bit I began to doze off.
I heard the older kids arrive home from school, still asking what was wrong with mom. Why was she in bed? Was she going to die? Christopher quietly came into my room and stood beside me. I opened my eyes.
"Sorry to disturb you, Mom. I just wanted to say I hope you feel better." Then he did an unexpected thing. He placed his hand upon my forehead and he prayed. He prayed that God would touch me and heal me. Was I filled with faith? No. I worried that he would be disappointed when I didn't immediately arise from the bed healed. I did not want him to be discouraged, but I had no idea how to encourage him. When he finished, I thanked him and he left the room.
In my head I began to question my lack of faith for healing. At the same time, I knew God could work through sickness and pain-but I don't like to suffer. Why didn't He just heal us immediately when we asked? As I lay there wrestling with my thoughts, I noticed something. My head was no longer pounding. I didn't feel feverish or even sleepy. Why was I still lying in bed? I hesitated, then sat up. I didn't feel sick. I felt fine. Out of the bed I came. I went to Christopher and thanked him for praying for me.
In my weakness, God showed Himself strong. And is it possible, that in my weakness, God spoke into the heart of a 2 year old boy? When I asked Christina if her 2 year old brother could pray for her, did God breathe life into those words? Without even realizing it, my words told Christopher that I believed in the power of God to work through him. I'd like to believe God used my lack of faith to build faith. My son's faith, in turn, increased my faith. This is what the body of Christ is all about. We need one another, whether it is a 90 year old lady who prays or a 2 year old boy. God values and cares for us all.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Phone Calls (Updated)
I want to be snug in bed right now, my head resting comfortably on my special pillow. I'd be wearing my fuzzy, soft, pink pajamas with the covers pulled up and folded neatly under my chin. But here I sit. I'm wide awake. I'm waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring.
It's nothing serious, I hope. Earlier in the evening I received one of those "mom, what should I do?" phone calls. Christina's voice sounded remarkably calm, although I suspect that was for my benefit. Ethan had choked on something. He began gagging, then vomitted. Whatever it was, it didn't come out. But he did start breathing, so it must have gone down. She wondered if she should take him to the Emergency Room to make sure he was okay. One part of me wanted to shout, "yes, get him there now!" Another part of me didn't want to be an alarmist. I suggested she call a real doctor and ask his advice. She did.
So somewhere, 70 miles away, Ethan and Christina are waiting. Waiting to be seen, waiting for ex-rays, waiting for the results, waiting to speak with the doctor. And I am waiting for the phone call that tells me everything is fine and I can go to bed now.
At 2:23 a.m. Christina sent me a text message to say that they were home and Ethan was fine. Hallelujah!
I want to be snug in bed right now, my head resting comfortably on my special pillow. I'd be wearing my fuzzy, soft, pink pajamas with the covers pulled up and folded neatly under my chin. But here I sit. I'm wide awake. I'm waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring.
It's nothing serious, I hope. Earlier in the evening I received one of those "mom, what should I do?" phone calls. Christina's voice sounded remarkably calm, although I suspect that was for my benefit. Ethan had choked on something. He began gagging, then vomitted. Whatever it was, it didn't come out. But he did start breathing, so it must have gone down. She wondered if she should take him to the Emergency Room to make sure he was okay. One part of me wanted to shout, "yes, get him there now!" Another part of me didn't want to be an alarmist. I suggested she call a real doctor and ask his advice. She did.
So somewhere, 70 miles away, Ethan and Christina are waiting. Waiting to be seen, waiting for ex-rays, waiting for the results, waiting to speak with the doctor. And I am waiting for the phone call that tells me everything is fine and I can go to bed now.
At 2:23 a.m. Christina sent me a text message to say that they were home and Ethan was fine. Hallelujah!
Monday, February 19, 2007
Monday is my grocery shopping day. I debated about whether or not to go, since it was a holiday for the kids. I was feeling a bit guilty that I didn't do anything special with them. It is sort of what happens during Spring Break. I hear about the trips to Hawaii, Arizona, the Cayman Islands, New York, Paris...all of the places their classmates go for Spring Break. We almost always stay home. When they were little, we'd go out to lunch, take a trip to a museum, see a movie, or drive up for a picnic in the mountains. But now, maybe I just get tired.
So, even though it was a day-off-from-school, I went grocery shopping. I found I was walking a bit slower than usual. (I think it was because I didn't bother to make a grocery list.) Not only that, I hadn't even thought about the meals we'd have this week. I was browsing.
By the time I reached the produce section, my cart looked rather barren instead of its usual brimful self. Fruit and vegetables are healthier anyway, I mused. I pushed my sparse-filled cart to the apples. I decided on 3 different varieties, but a lady and her plentiful cart blocked my way. I pushed mine off to the side, so as not to block anyone else, then wiggled my way to the apples. I carefully selected some lovely, crisp Pink Ladies, a few not-as firm Galas, and 1 very green, most-likely tart Granny Smith. I turned to place them in my cart. But it wasn't there. I turned 3 or 4 times. I knew I'd pushed it a bit to the side, but hadn't it been right here?
I heard familiar giggling as I was looking around but it took a minute to figure it out. There across a few rows was my cart. It had been kidnapped by Elisabeth, Sarabeth, and Hilary. They were no longer just giggling but laughing hysterically.
"You turned around 4 times looking for your cart, Mom! What did you think happened?"
Oh! My kids can be so funny. I didn't feel so guilty for not doing anything special with them. They seem to have managed to amuse themselves just fine without me. We finished shopping together and they loaded my groceries in the car for me. I can't imagine life with just 1 or 2 kids. Think of all the fun I'd miss out on. If anything, I should have had a half a dozen more.
So, even though it was a day-off-from-school, I went grocery shopping. I found I was walking a bit slower than usual. (I think it was because I didn't bother to make a grocery list.) Not only that, I hadn't even thought about the meals we'd have this week. I was browsing.
By the time I reached the produce section, my cart looked rather barren instead of its usual brimful self. Fruit and vegetables are healthier anyway, I mused. I pushed my sparse-filled cart to the apples. I decided on 3 different varieties, but a lady and her plentiful cart blocked my way. I pushed mine off to the side, so as not to block anyone else, then wiggled my way to the apples. I carefully selected some lovely, crisp Pink Ladies, a few not-as firm Galas, and 1 very green, most-likely tart Granny Smith. I turned to place them in my cart. But it wasn't there. I turned 3 or 4 times. I knew I'd pushed it a bit to the side, but hadn't it been right here?
I heard familiar giggling as I was looking around but it took a minute to figure it out. There across a few rows was my cart. It had been kidnapped by Elisabeth, Sarabeth, and Hilary. They were no longer just giggling but laughing hysterically.
"You turned around 4 times looking for your cart, Mom! What did you think happened?"
Oh! My kids can be so funny. I didn't feel so guilty for not doing anything special with them. They seem to have managed to amuse themselves just fine without me. We finished shopping together and they loaded my groceries in the car for me. I can't imagine life with just 1 or 2 kids. Think of all the fun I'd miss out on. If anything, I should have had a half a dozen more.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Opening Night
The stage was set. The actors stood poised, ready to make their entrance. The curtain was about to be drawn for the High School Musical. Sarabeth could feel her heart beating and noticed she was breathing faster. "Take a deep breath and relax" she told herself. Afterall, it wasn't as if she was going to be seen, but still. She was responsible for left stage.
Back in November, Sarabeth tried out for the musical. It wasn't the first time she felt the sting of disappointment. When she didn't make it, she chose to become part of the stage crew. Before she had the courage to try out, she was part of the crew. She could do it again. I was reminded of Joseph, of the bible. He too was able to rise above rejection and disapointment and work hard at whatever task was at hand.
As practices began, the Director made an unprecedented move. For ten years he'd produced some of the finest high school musicals around. He is well respected in the community for running a quality show. His standards are high. He demands hard work and respect from his cast and crew, but he gives the same and more of himself. This year, he chose two Juniors as his Stage Managers. Formerly, these positions had only been held by Senior students, typically the most mature and responsible kids. Sarabeth was chosen as Left Stage Manager.
Once during rehearsal she missed giving the cue for closing the curtain. Apparently, she took to daydreaming. (She does sound a lot like Joseph. Didn't his brothers call him "The dreamer?") The director began yelling, "curtain, curtain, curtain..." expecting it to close instantly. Sarabeth froze. I have learned through the years, that she does not react well to shouts. I found out while teaching her to drive and she blew through a stop sign. Another car was coming. Yelling "stop, stop!" did not produce results. She froze, with her foot on the accelerator.
Afterwards, Sarabeth apologized to the Director for missing the cue. He wasn't angry, but replied, "just don't let it happen again." And it didn't.
I proudly sat in the audience opening night. I noticed when the lights went off and on, the entrances and exits of the actors. I listened in the dark to scene changes and paid attention to the orchestra. I'm sure most of these things went unnoticed by the others who've come to watch this performance. The audience was full of parents who came to see their sons and daughters on center stage in all their glory. But I knew it took the work of many unseen people to create this stunning production. I was proud of Sarabeth and her accomplishments.
I was reminded that in some ways, I also am a Left Stage Manager. I am responsible, as a wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, to see that those around me achieve their full potential. God is the ultimate creator and director. I may not be chosen to be center stage, but by doing my part and giving direction in the lives of others, I can witness a glorious performance.
The stage was set. The actors stood poised, ready to make their entrance. The curtain was about to be drawn for the High School Musical. Sarabeth could feel her heart beating and noticed she was breathing faster. "Take a deep breath and relax" she told herself. Afterall, it wasn't as if she was going to be seen, but still. She was responsible for left stage.
Back in November, Sarabeth tried out for the musical. It wasn't the first time she felt the sting of disappointment. When she didn't make it, she chose to become part of the stage crew. Before she had the courage to try out, she was part of the crew. She could do it again. I was reminded of Joseph, of the bible. He too was able to rise above rejection and disapointment and work hard at whatever task was at hand.
As practices began, the Director made an unprecedented move. For ten years he'd produced some of the finest high school musicals around. He is well respected in the community for running a quality show. His standards are high. He demands hard work and respect from his cast and crew, but he gives the same and more of himself. This year, he chose two Juniors as his Stage Managers. Formerly, these positions had only been held by Senior students, typically the most mature and responsible kids. Sarabeth was chosen as Left Stage Manager.
Once during rehearsal she missed giving the cue for closing the curtain. Apparently, she took to daydreaming. (She does sound a lot like Joseph. Didn't his brothers call him "The dreamer?") The director began yelling, "curtain, curtain, curtain..." expecting it to close instantly. Sarabeth froze. I have learned through the years, that she does not react well to shouts. I found out while teaching her to drive and she blew through a stop sign. Another car was coming. Yelling "stop, stop!" did not produce results. She froze, with her foot on the accelerator.
Afterwards, Sarabeth apologized to the Director for missing the cue. He wasn't angry, but replied, "just don't let it happen again." And it didn't.
I proudly sat in the audience opening night. I noticed when the lights went off and on, the entrances and exits of the actors. I listened in the dark to scene changes and paid attention to the orchestra. I'm sure most of these things went unnoticed by the others who've come to watch this performance. The audience was full of parents who came to see their sons and daughters on center stage in all their glory. But I knew it took the work of many unseen people to create this stunning production. I was proud of Sarabeth and her accomplishments.
I was reminded that in some ways, I also am a Left Stage Manager. I am responsible, as a wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, to see that those around me achieve their full potential. God is the ultimate creator and director. I may not be chosen to be center stage, but by doing my part and giving direction in the lives of others, I can witness a glorious performance.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Love At First Sight
He smiles when I walk in the door. As we talk, I see a spark in his eyes. I know he loves me.
His embrace is warm and inviting. It's like hugging a big teddy bear.
His hands are soft and gentle. I know I can go to him for comfort and support.
There's a ruggedness about him. Strength and character abound. I can count on him for always doing the right thing, no matter what it will cost him.
Was it love at first sight? I think it was. Even though the first time he saw me, he thought I looked like a shriveled up monkey without a tail. My dad loves me.
Happy Birthday Dad! I love you!
(Dad with greatgrandson Ethan)
He smiles when I walk in the door. As we talk, I see a spark in his eyes. I know he loves me.
His embrace is warm and inviting. It's like hugging a big teddy bear.
His hands are soft and gentle. I know I can go to him for comfort and support.
There's a ruggedness about him. Strength and character abound. I can count on him for always doing the right thing, no matter what it will cost him.
Was it love at first sight? I think it was. Even though the first time he saw me, he thought I looked like a shriveled up monkey without a tail. My dad loves me.
Happy Birthday Dad! I love you!
(Dad with greatgrandson Ethan)
Monday, February 12, 2007
Buttons
What is the allure of a shiny round button that says "push?" Or the attraction of soft, plastic, arrows that light up when pressed, that have the power to bring an elevator up or down? Watch any child excitedly walking onto the elevator who has been given the privilege of seleting the floor. She will understand. Truth be told, if allowed, she'd press every single one of those buttons again and again. Watch two children race to the street corner to see who can reach the walk button first. It will not be good enough for the loser to press it after he's been beaten. Quite possibly, the mother will have to wait through an entire light cycle to calm the crying child who didn't get the privilege of pressing the button first.
Why do adults press the same button repeatedly? Intellectually they know that only one push is required to trigger a response. Push! Push! Push! In their rush, do they really believe the elevator will move faster if they push it 6 times? Possibly there is an elf inside, manning the pushes. Gosh, this man must be in a hurry. Four pushes, I'll speed the elevator up just for him. In all reality, the elf is probably saying, "Nope! Ten pushes is way too many. That woman needs to learn some patience. Hold the elevator on the 5th floor for at least another minute or so."
Okay, I admit it. Once or twice I've double-pushed, just in case it didn't register the first time. The other day I beat a kid to the elevator button. I deleriously watched the 3 light up. The kid went to push the button. "No honey, we are going to the 3rd floor too." His hand dropped. his face fell. He looked dejectedly at the floor. I felt a little guilty. I hadn't really meant to beat him. There's just something about pushing the button.
Can you believe it? I have this in my car:
A bright red button! Who could resist this beauty?
I guess it shouldn't surprise me, that my daughter, Elisabeth, cannot resist the secret beckoning of a button. I hung one of these in the shower:
If you've never seen this product it is an automatic shower cleaner. How cool is that? Before exiting the shower, you press the button. It beeps 10 or so times to let you know it has been activated. It then sprays your entire shower with cleaner, to keep your shower sparkling clean. Now if you are Elisabeth, and see this blue button while you are showering, you will not be able to resist pushing it. Right there in the middle of your shower you will press it. Your music will be loudly playing and at first you won't hear the beep, beep. You will wonder why it didn't do anything and you will press it again. Then, without warning, apple-scented cleaner will squirt you in the eye. Around and around it will go, until it has sprayed your entire body. When you finally recover, and are out of the shower, you will inquire of your mother, "what-in-the-world is that spray-thingy in the shower and why didn't you warn me?"
What is the allure of a shiny round button that says "push?" Or the attraction of soft, plastic, arrows that light up when pressed, that have the power to bring an elevator up or down? Watch any child excitedly walking onto the elevator who has been given the privilege of seleting the floor. She will understand. Truth be told, if allowed, she'd press every single one of those buttons again and again. Watch two children race to the street corner to see who can reach the walk button first. It will not be good enough for the loser to press it after he's been beaten. Quite possibly, the mother will have to wait through an entire light cycle to calm the crying child who didn't get the privilege of pressing the button first.
Why do adults press the same button repeatedly? Intellectually they know that only one push is required to trigger a response. Push! Push! Push! In their rush, do they really believe the elevator will move faster if they push it 6 times? Possibly there is an elf inside, manning the pushes. Gosh, this man must be in a hurry. Four pushes, I'll speed the elevator up just for him. In all reality, the elf is probably saying, "Nope! Ten pushes is way too many. That woman needs to learn some patience. Hold the elevator on the 5th floor for at least another minute or so."
Okay, I admit it. Once or twice I've double-pushed, just in case it didn't register the first time. The other day I beat a kid to the elevator button. I deleriously watched the 3 light up. The kid went to push the button. "No honey, we are going to the 3rd floor too." His hand dropped. his face fell. He looked dejectedly at the floor. I felt a little guilty. I hadn't really meant to beat him. There's just something about pushing the button.
Can you believe it? I have this in my car:
A bright red button! Who could resist this beauty?
I guess it shouldn't surprise me, that my daughter, Elisabeth, cannot resist the secret beckoning of a button. I hung one of these in the shower:
If you've never seen this product it is an automatic shower cleaner. How cool is that? Before exiting the shower, you press the button. It beeps 10 or so times to let you know it has been activated. It then sprays your entire shower with cleaner, to keep your shower sparkling clean. Now if you are Elisabeth, and see this blue button while you are showering, you will not be able to resist pushing it. Right there in the middle of your shower you will press it. Your music will be loudly playing and at first you won't hear the beep, beep. You will wonder why it didn't do anything and you will press it again. Then, without warning, apple-scented cleaner will squirt you in the eye. Around and around it will go, until it has sprayed your entire body. When you finally recover, and are out of the shower, you will inquire of your mother, "what-in-the-world is that spray-thingy in the shower and why didn't you warn me?"
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Phone Calls You Don't Want To Get
This was one of those weeks that you don't even want to hear the phone ring. It started last Sunday night.
Michael received this one from Elisabeth (our 19 year old)
"Hello?"
"Dad, (pause, sniffle) Brian's dad just died."
Tuesday night another call came in. Michael answered it.
"Hello?"
"Mike, this is Jeri (his sister.) Dad just took mom to the hospital."
Wednesday Evening-another one Michael had the privilege of receiving
"Hello?"
"Dad, (long pause) Brian and I just slid into another car. I was on the way to the chiropractor because my back was hurting so bad. Brian was driving and the roads are real slick..."
Thursday Afternoon (I answered this one from my oldest, Christina)
"Hello?"
"Mom, my car just hit a concrete barrier in the middle of the highway."
Later that night Jeri phoned again.
"Mike, can you come down? We are worried about dad being alone while mom is still in the hospital."
It is Saturday morning. Michael is in Arizona with his parents and I'm on my way to a funeral. If the phone rings, I'm not answering.
This was one of those weeks that you don't even want to hear the phone ring. It started last Sunday night.
Michael received this one from Elisabeth (our 19 year old)
"Hello?"
"Dad, (pause, sniffle) Brian's dad just died."
Tuesday night another call came in. Michael answered it.
"Hello?"
"Mike, this is Jeri (his sister.) Dad just took mom to the hospital."
Wednesday Evening-another one Michael had the privilege of receiving
"Hello?"
"Dad, (long pause) Brian and I just slid into another car. I was on the way to the chiropractor because my back was hurting so bad. Brian was driving and the roads are real slick..."
Thursday Afternoon (I answered this one from my oldest, Christina)
"Hello?"
"Mom, my car just hit a concrete barrier in the middle of the highway."
Later that night Jeri phoned again.
"Mike, can you come down? We are worried about dad being alone while mom is still in the hospital."
It is Saturday morning. Michael is in Arizona with his parents and I'm on my way to a funeral. If the phone rings, I'm not answering.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Baby It's Cold Outside
Denver weather has made the news again. We hit an all time low last night, a chilly 18 degrees below 0. Yes, -18, not to mention the 7th straight week of snow. Baby, it IS cold outside.
On to other news, back in early December it was decided that my inlaws would move to Colorado. They currently live in sunny, brutally hot Arizona. Shortly after the decision was made, we've had this amazing weather. I wonder what they are thinking now. At ages 83 and 79, why would they want to leave the never-icy sidewalks of the desert to join the survivors of blizzards, cold, and snow? The answer is simply because Michael and I are at a point in life where we can provide the most help.
Life is about changes, growing and learning. It is a journey not intended for standing still. If we become too comfortable, thinking we can sit at leisure, something will come along to knock us out of that zone. If we resist transition, our personal transformation won't occur. We cease to live.
Denver weather has made the news again. We hit an all time low last night, a chilly 18 degrees below 0. Yes, -18, not to mention the 7th straight week of snow. Baby, it IS cold outside.
On to other news, back in early December it was decided that my inlaws would move to Colorado. They currently live in sunny, brutally hot Arizona. Shortly after the decision was made, we've had this amazing weather. I wonder what they are thinking now. At ages 83 and 79, why would they want to leave the never-icy sidewalks of the desert to join the survivors of blizzards, cold, and snow? The answer is simply because Michael and I are at a point in life where we can provide the most help.
Life is about changes, growing and learning. It is a journey not intended for standing still. If we become too comfortable, thinking we can sit at leisure, something will come along to knock us out of that zone. If we resist transition, our personal transformation won't occur. We cease to live.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
For Christmas, Ethan received a micro gameboy from his father. Because of Ethan's disabilities, he really doesn't understand playing video games. The miniature size of this one makes even pushing the buttons difficult. It is a mere 3 inches. I tried to take a picture of Ethan playing it, but only got a blur. 
Hilary was text messaging on her phone and this was Ethan standing next to her "playing" his game. After pushing the buttons, he put it up to his ear and started talking. We laughed and laughed. I guess it works as a cell phone too.
Hilary was text messaging on her phone and this was Ethan standing next to her "playing" his game. After pushing the buttons, he put it up to his ear and started talking. We laughed and laughed. I guess it works as a cell phone too.
Monday, January 29, 2007
For a couple of weeks, I contemplated what I could do for my sister's birthday. If I lived in the same city it would be easy. We'd go to lunch, I'd bake her a German Chocolate Cake. Laurie loves to shop, so we'd no doubt visit the mall. It would be a grand time. Then I'd watch her boys so she and her hubby could have a night out. So how do I celebrate from another state?
By Monday, I decided I was sending a card. I couldn't actually send it on that day, as her birthday wasn't until Friday. I'd mail it Tuesday and hopefully it would arrive on the proper day and when the confetti fell out of the card it would feel just a tiny festive. (I'm not sure why I couldn't actually BUY the card before Tuesday. I really need to rethink my silliness.)
Sometime on Tuesday I realized I needed to get my act together, if I was going to celebrate in some fashion. That is, until it hit me that it was not Tuesday but Wednesday. Ugh! How did that happen? There was a slim-to-none chance that the card would actually arrive on Friday. I was going to have to order flowers or balloons. But Laurie is a flight attendant and works weekends. By the time she came home the flowers would be wilty and balloons deflated sadly on the ground. Sigh. I didn't do anything.
Friday morning I woke up early. Before I was even out of bed, I remembered it was my little sister's birthday. For just a second I thought about how fun it would have been to just hop on a plane and eat cake and laugh for hours on end. Around 10, I called to wish her a Happy Birthday. I told my sad tale of my pathetic attempts to celebrate and how I wished I could just be with her. I asked her how she planned to enjoy her day. She was having a party that night. Mom was making enchiladas. My other sister, my brother, nieces, nephews and such were coming over. "Why don't you just come down?"
Because she works for the airlines, she can share some of her flight benefits. That is the luxury of flying standby for a very cheap price. She had a pass. The new ones were electronic. The arrangements could be made online. Could I make the 2:57 p.m. flight? Oh my! Michael and I had an errand to run that would take an hour and a half. Yes, I could do it. (Okay, maybe it wasn't really that easy.) I could hear the exuberance in her voice. She began making plans out loud and telling of the fun we'd have. How exciting it would be to share our little secret with everyone when I walked in to the party. She was elated.
I amazed even myself when my bag was packed and we were walking out the door to the airport. I hadn't even told my kids. I text messaged each of them, then texted Christopher. I asked him how he'd like to go to a party with me that night. "What? Are you flying into town???" He was incredulous. I assured him I was and he made plans to meet me there. This birthday celebrations was going to be huge. My mom & dad would be so happy to see me. Could it get any better?
Michael reminded me that although I was looking forward to having a grand time, disguised in my sister's birthday, that it was at a cost. Others would have to sacrifice in order to make this work. He was right. I felt like I was abandoning my other children and him. I was shirking my responsibilities. This was very impractical. But at that moment I didn't want to be practical or responsible. I wanted to be spontaneous, to enjoy the thrill of jetting off to a party. The wind went out of my sails.
I said good-bye, as he got my suitcase out of the car. We embraced and off I went. The security line was long. I felt a bit tense. Maybe when I was on the plane I could feel the party mood again.
At the gate I phoned my sister to let her know I'd be there in just a couple of hours. She chattered enthusiastically. When they began boarding the plane, I told her I needed to hang up. I waited impatiently. I stood near the counter as they called each section to embark. What was taking so long? I didn't have a confirmed seat yet. The announcement came. The plane was full. No one else would be getting on the plane. An earlier flight had been canceled making the rest of the evening an impossibility. Sigh.
I phoned Michael, who was already at home. He drove the half hour back to get me, and it took us over an hour to get home. It wasn't meant to be. I guess it really was a unrealistic & impractical.
By Monday, I decided I was sending a card. I couldn't actually send it on that day, as her birthday wasn't until Friday. I'd mail it Tuesday and hopefully it would arrive on the proper day and when the confetti fell out of the card it would feel just a tiny festive. (I'm not sure why I couldn't actually BUY the card before Tuesday. I really need to rethink my silliness.)
Sometime on Tuesday I realized I needed to get my act together, if I was going to celebrate in some fashion. That is, until it hit me that it was not Tuesday but Wednesday. Ugh! How did that happen? There was a slim-to-none chance that the card would actually arrive on Friday. I was going to have to order flowers or balloons. But Laurie is a flight attendant and works weekends. By the time she came home the flowers would be wilty and balloons deflated sadly on the ground. Sigh. I didn't do anything.
Friday morning I woke up early. Before I was even out of bed, I remembered it was my little sister's birthday. For just a second I thought about how fun it would have been to just hop on a plane and eat cake and laugh for hours on end. Around 10, I called to wish her a Happy Birthday. I told my sad tale of my pathetic attempts to celebrate and how I wished I could just be with her. I asked her how she planned to enjoy her day. She was having a party that night. Mom was making enchiladas. My other sister, my brother, nieces, nephews and such were coming over. "Why don't you just come down?"
Because she works for the airlines, she can share some of her flight benefits. That is the luxury of flying standby for a very cheap price. She had a pass. The new ones were electronic. The arrangements could be made online. Could I make the 2:57 p.m. flight? Oh my! Michael and I had an errand to run that would take an hour and a half. Yes, I could do it. (Okay, maybe it wasn't really that easy.) I could hear the exuberance in her voice. She began making plans out loud and telling of the fun we'd have. How exciting it would be to share our little secret with everyone when I walked in to the party. She was elated.
I amazed even myself when my bag was packed and we were walking out the door to the airport. I hadn't even told my kids. I text messaged each of them, then texted Christopher. I asked him how he'd like to go to a party with me that night. "What? Are you flying into town???" He was incredulous. I assured him I was and he made plans to meet me there. This birthday celebrations was going to be huge. My mom & dad would be so happy to see me. Could it get any better?
Michael reminded me that although I was looking forward to having a grand time, disguised in my sister's birthday, that it was at a cost. Others would have to sacrifice in order to make this work. He was right. I felt like I was abandoning my other children and him. I was shirking my responsibilities. This was very impractical. But at that moment I didn't want to be practical or responsible. I wanted to be spontaneous, to enjoy the thrill of jetting off to a party. The wind went out of my sails.
I said good-bye, as he got my suitcase out of the car. We embraced and off I went. The security line was long. I felt a bit tense. Maybe when I was on the plane I could feel the party mood again.
At the gate I phoned my sister to let her know I'd be there in just a couple of hours. She chattered enthusiastically. When they began boarding the plane, I told her I needed to hang up. I waited impatiently. I stood near the counter as they called each section to embark. What was taking so long? I didn't have a confirmed seat yet. The announcement came. The plane was full. No one else would be getting on the plane. An earlier flight had been canceled making the rest of the evening an impossibility. Sigh.
I phoned Michael, who was already at home. He drove the half hour back to get me, and it took us over an hour to get home. It wasn't meant to be. I guess it really was a unrealistic & impractical.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
Seasons Poll
I have a confession to make. In the midst of constant complaints about the non-stop snow, I am secretly loving it. I say secretly because I'm afraid that if towards the end of the season I begin to look forward to green grass, someone may not let me forget my secret love of the white stuff. I even read in the news today about "Tips on how beat the depression" brought on by this kind of "foul" weather.
Colorado is known for huge changes in weather at a moment's notice. I love variety, which is one of the reasons I fell in love here. (Did I mention one day 2 weeks ago, the temperature hit 64 degrees and I hand washed my car? Two days later the high was 6 degrees.) This has been a very unusual winter. The grass was still green in December when the first blizzard hit and I now have no idea what it looks like now. It's been buried beneath deep snow for over a month. Snow usually melts within a day or two at most. But it is beautiful, which is why Winter is my second favorite month of all.
So, all of this got me to thinking about seasons. What is your favorite season of the year? I'd love to hear from everyone about which is the best to worst season. (I missed "delurking week" so I'd love for lurkers to jump in and add their answers too. You are welcome to post annonymously.) Oh, and please include the month you were born. I'm wondering if some of us look forward to a season because of the anticipation of celebrating one's birth.
Here are my answers:
1. Summer-I love the hot, lazy days of summer.
2. Winter-I love layering clothes and the beauty of winter snow.
3. Spring-Because just about the time I'm getting tired of being cold, springs breaks out. (My birthday is in March 13, technically winter, but close to spring
4. Fall-I think I've always disliked fall. For the past 20 years or so, it means my kids would go off to school, spending more of their day with a teacher instead of me. I never liked the beginning of a school year. I miss my kids when they are gone!
So what about you?
I have a confession to make. In the midst of constant complaints about the non-stop snow, I am secretly loving it. I say secretly because I'm afraid that if towards the end of the season I begin to look forward to green grass, someone may not let me forget my secret love of the white stuff. I even read in the news today about "Tips on how beat the depression" brought on by this kind of "foul" weather.
Colorado is known for huge changes in weather at a moment's notice. I love variety, which is one of the reasons I fell in love here. (Did I mention one day 2 weeks ago, the temperature hit 64 degrees and I hand washed my car? Two days later the high was 6 degrees.) This has been a very unusual winter. The grass was still green in December when the first blizzard hit and I now have no idea what it looks like now. It's been buried beneath deep snow for over a month. Snow usually melts within a day or two at most. But it is beautiful, which is why Winter is my second favorite month of all.
So, all of this got me to thinking about seasons. What is your favorite season of the year? I'd love to hear from everyone about which is the best to worst season. (I missed "delurking week" so I'd love for lurkers to jump in and add their answers too. You are welcome to post annonymously.) Oh, and please include the month you were born. I'm wondering if some of us look forward to a season because of the anticipation of celebrating one's birth.
Here are my answers:
1. Summer-I love the hot, lazy days of summer.
2. Winter-I love layering clothes and the beauty of winter snow.
3. Spring-Because just about the time I'm getting tired of being cold, springs breaks out. (My birthday is in March 13, technically winter, but close to spring
4. Fall-I think I've always disliked fall. For the past 20 years or so, it means my kids would go off to school, spending more of their day with a teacher instead of me. I never liked the beginning of a school year. I miss my kids when they are gone!
So what about you?
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Tick...tick....tick...it wasn't audible, but I could hear the the minutes counting down. He knew that the tickets went on sale at exactly 10 a.m. Why wasn't he out of bed yet? Did he forget? No, he couldn't possibly forget, or could he? Sometimes when things weren't important to him, he became absentminded. But he knew how much this meant to me.
It was only 9:15, but he never sleeps past 8 a.m. Ninety percent of the time, he goes to bed before me, and 99% of the time that is before midnight. So what was he doing up until 2:30 a.m. the previous night? It would be understandable if he slept past 10 this particular morning. This whole situation could be resolved in 1 of 2 ways. I could go wake him up. But in my mind, if I wake him up, that would be saying, "I don't trust you to keep your word." I could awaken him just before 10 if it looked like he wasn't moving towards getting up, but that still seemed a bit pushy.
Or, if he wasn't out of bed by the time the tickets went on sale, I could actually make the purchase myself. But...but, that wouldn't be the same. The tickets were for my birthday. It just wouldn't feel like the special gift it was if I made the purchase myself.
At this point I am beginning to fret. I'm already wondering what my reaction is to be if I miss out on this concert. He and I have never been to a concert together. We've never spent so much on tickets strictly for entertainment purposes. Am I going to be angry, disappointed? Will I have a hard time not bringing this up again-failure to remember something that is important to me?
What? Do I hear the sound of water running? Yes! He's up in plenty of time. He only takes about a half hour to get dressed. At 9:45 a.m. he walks into the room. He poises himself at the computer, as if he is about to start a marathon. At exactly 10 a.m. he begins furiously typing the info onto his keyboard. By 10 minutes after the hour it is done. Michael and I are going to the George Strait concert on March 3rd! My birthday is the 13, but I don't mind celebrating 10 days earlier. Woohoo! My husband rocks!~
It was only 9:15, but he never sleeps past 8 a.m. Ninety percent of the time, he goes to bed before me, and 99% of the time that is before midnight. So what was he doing up until 2:30 a.m. the previous night? It would be understandable if he slept past 10 this particular morning. This whole situation could be resolved in 1 of 2 ways. I could go wake him up. But in my mind, if I wake him up, that would be saying, "I don't trust you to keep your word." I could awaken him just before 10 if it looked like he wasn't moving towards getting up, but that still seemed a bit pushy.
Or, if he wasn't out of bed by the time the tickets went on sale, I could actually make the purchase myself. But...but, that wouldn't be the same. The tickets were for my birthday. It just wouldn't feel like the special gift it was if I made the purchase myself.
At this point I am beginning to fret. I'm already wondering what my reaction is to be if I miss out on this concert. He and I have never been to a concert together. We've never spent so much on tickets strictly for entertainment purposes. Am I going to be angry, disappointed? Will I have a hard time not bringing this up again-failure to remember something that is important to me?
What? Do I hear the sound of water running? Yes! He's up in plenty of time. He only takes about a half hour to get dressed. At 9:45 a.m. he walks into the room. He poises himself at the computer, as if he is about to start a marathon. At exactly 10 a.m. he begins furiously typing the info onto his keyboard. By 10 minutes after the hour it is done. Michael and I are going to the George Strait concert on March 3rd! My birthday is the 13, but I don't mind celebrating 10 days earlier. Woohoo! My husband rocks!~
Thursday, January 18, 2007
I Wish I'd Thought Of That
Somewhere the question was asked, "how can we get consumers to spend more money?" Clothing manufactures & laundry detergent makers got together to find an answer that would benefit both. They needed to come up with a plan for selling more clothes creating a need to wash more frequently, thus selling more detergent. But how could they do this?
"I propose that we convince the general public that layering clothes is a grand idea. What about jackets and vests?" Suggested one vendor. He figured that if women were told jackets were flattering and could hide their figure flaws, they'd definitely go for it.
That idea worked alright, but it was found that jackets and vest didn't require laundering every day. Some had to be dry cleaned, so the detergent makers weren't very happy. Back to the drawing board they went.
One young entrepreneur had a thought. "What if we made clothing for the female gender a little more revealing? The men would love it. Let's design every shirt, blouse, sweater, or dress to be low cut, made from sheer or flimsy fabric. We will also begin manufacturing these lovely little numbers, that were once considered underclothes, as Cami's. Every woman who tries on our shirts will realize that it is necessary to layer something underneath. From there we can branch out to fancier brassieres because even with a shirt and a Cami, out clothes will still be sheer enough to see the straps. Every lady you know will desire to have not only an undershirt for everything she wears, but matching brassieres also. Think of the possibilities! It won't be long before we can have them wearing 5, 6, 7 simple pieces of clothing each and every day. Just think about how much more laundry they will be doing. I can hear the kaching at the register as they are investing in more and more laundry detergent. And the best part of all, we won't even bother giving the ladies any other choices. If we all get together and do this women everywhere will HAVE to purchase and wear more clothes.
And so the foolishness began.
Somewhere the question was asked, "how can we get consumers to spend more money?" Clothing manufactures & laundry detergent makers got together to find an answer that would benefit both. They needed to come up with a plan for selling more clothes creating a need to wash more frequently, thus selling more detergent. But how could they do this?
"I propose that we convince the general public that layering clothes is a grand idea. What about jackets and vests?" Suggested one vendor. He figured that if women were told jackets were flattering and could hide their figure flaws, they'd definitely go for it.
That idea worked alright, but it was found that jackets and vest didn't require laundering every day. Some had to be dry cleaned, so the detergent makers weren't very happy. Back to the drawing board they went.
One young entrepreneur had a thought. "What if we made clothing for the female gender a little more revealing? The men would love it. Let's design every shirt, blouse, sweater, or dress to be low cut, made from sheer or flimsy fabric. We will also begin manufacturing these lovely little numbers, that were once considered underclothes, as Cami's. Every woman who tries on our shirts will realize that it is necessary to layer something underneath. From there we can branch out to fancier brassieres because even with a shirt and a Cami, out clothes will still be sheer enough to see the straps. Every lady you know will desire to have not only an undershirt for everything she wears, but matching brassieres also. Think of the possibilities! It won't be long before we can have them wearing 5, 6, 7 simple pieces of clothing each and every day. Just think about how much more laundry they will be doing. I can hear the kaching at the register as they are investing in more and more laundry detergent. And the best part of all, we won't even bother giving the ladies any other choices. If we all get together and do this women everywhere will HAVE to purchase and wear more clothes.
And so the foolishness began.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Laundry-Clean or Dirty
Sometime after having my 5th child, laundry became out-of-control. To keep it somewhat manageable, I wash 3 loads a day, 5 days a week. This led to the occasional game of "is this clean or is this dirty?"
When I find articles of clothing, still folded amidst the dirty laundry, I know these items are clean. Somehow they've found their way back into the hamper. That somehow is usually one of the kids in a hurry to clean their room. Or on a rare occasion he or she has decided to sort through clothes they no longer wear. Why they'd dump their castoffs into a basket of dirty clothes boggles my mind. If not found in time, it is necessary to wash them again.
The other puzzling "is this clean or is it dirty" happens when a stray sock or pair of underwear is found on the floor of the laundry room. How does this happen? 1. It falls out when putting clothes into the washer. 2. An offending child rummages through their clean clothes basket and something gets tossed out. (Why would they bother to pick it back up?) 3. It gets knocked off the neatly folded (or haphazurdly heaped) pile of freshly laundered clothes on the table. 4. It is dropped while removing laundry from the dryer. So there are 3 chances in 4, that sock is clean.
With some socks and some underwear it is easy to tell "is this clean or is it dirty." If the sock is stiff, crunchy feeling, or stretched out it is definately dirty. Thong panties have a certain look after being worn that shouts unclean. But on occasion I have come across a pair of whitey tidies, or a sock that looks fresh out of the dryer. "Is this clean or is it dirty?" You pick it up. It feels soft. So how do you know? The true test is the whiff test. It is the only way. Pick it up and hold it to your nostrils and inhale. Ah, the soft scent of your favorite dryer sheet or an offending odor that causes you to propel the item away as if it was a dirty diaper you'd just plunged upon your face.
I've decided to quit playing the "is it clean or is it dirty game." From now on, if an item is on the floor, no matter how soft or clean looking it appears, it goes in with the dirties. The whiff test is just too, um, repulsive.
Sometime after having my 5th child, laundry became out-of-control. To keep it somewhat manageable, I wash 3 loads a day, 5 days a week. This led to the occasional game of "is this clean or is this dirty?"
When I find articles of clothing, still folded amidst the dirty laundry, I know these items are clean. Somehow they've found their way back into the hamper. That somehow is usually one of the kids in a hurry to clean their room. Or on a rare occasion he or she has decided to sort through clothes they no longer wear. Why they'd dump their castoffs into a basket of dirty clothes boggles my mind. If not found in time, it is necessary to wash them again.
The other puzzling "is this clean or is it dirty" happens when a stray sock or pair of underwear is found on the floor of the laundry room. How does this happen? 1. It falls out when putting clothes into the washer. 2. An offending child rummages through their clean clothes basket and something gets tossed out. (Why would they bother to pick it back up?) 3. It gets knocked off the neatly folded (or haphazurdly heaped) pile of freshly laundered clothes on the table. 4. It is dropped while removing laundry from the dryer. So there are 3 chances in 4, that sock is clean.
With some socks and some underwear it is easy to tell "is this clean or is it dirty." If the sock is stiff, crunchy feeling, or stretched out it is definately dirty. Thong panties have a certain look after being worn that shouts unclean. But on occasion I have come across a pair of whitey tidies, or a sock that looks fresh out of the dryer. "Is this clean or is it dirty?" You pick it up. It feels soft. So how do you know? The true test is the whiff test. It is the only way. Pick it up and hold it to your nostrils and inhale. Ah, the soft scent of your favorite dryer sheet or an offending odor that causes you to propel the item away as if it was a dirty diaper you'd just plunged upon your face.
I've decided to quit playing the "is it clean or is it dirty game." From now on, if an item is on the floor, no matter how soft or clean looking it appears, it goes in with the dirties. The whiff test is just too, um, repulsive.
Monday, January 15, 2007
It's time to talk about something other than the weather around here. Sheesh! Enough already! I became so excited that the temperature made it to 20 today, my daughter and I left the house without a coat. It was almost balmy.
While getting ready for church, Christina mentioned that she and Ethan would join me. I was surprised, as it had been awhile. It is not easy taking Ethan to church. We never know if he will be able to sit that long or how quiet he will be. The Sunday School class is not always prepared to have him. They like to have one person to devote just to him. As my thoughts pondered what the morning might bring a memory came in to focus.
Ethan is now 4 1/2. By next fall, he will be old enough for kindergarten. I remembered Christina's first day of school at age 5. Along with the usual worries of a first-time mom sending her first child off to school, I had an added concern. My daughter was going with her arm in a cast that went from her hand to just under her armpit.
We'd taken our vacation at the end of summer. Arizona, naturally, to visit grandparents and cousins. While the adults were enjoying some much needed conversation, the kids played happily in the bedroom. Thud! No screams or crying, so we figured everything must be ok. Out walked Christina. One arm was cradling the other. The injured arm was bent at a 90 degree angle right in the middle of her forearm-a place that doesn't normally move or bend. I don't think I've ever moved so fast in my life.
At the hospital, I found I could not look at her arm without feeling faint. I was sure the contents of my stomach would come spilling out at any moment. It didn't help that I was 10 weeks pregnant. Thankfully, she did not have to have surgery to put everything back in place. We returned to Colorado with a momento from Arizona-a plaster cast. It was heavy and quite a weight on her thin little arm.
The first day of school Christina sported her very decorated but bulky cast. I was delighted to see her smile at the end of her very long, 2 1/2 hour day. We chatted on the drive home as she told me about her new teacher, the activity centers and books they'd read.
At home I wondered about recess. I'd been concerned about the possibility of her getting hurt or falling and injuring her arm further. So I asked her.
Me: How did recess go? What did you do?
Christina: I sat on the sidewalk and watched the kids play.
My heart was saddened. Had I frightened her with my warnings to be careful? Was she afraid to play? Before I had a chance to ask, she began to explain.
Christina: You know what mom? I think I know what a kid in a wheelchair feels like.
Me: What?
Christina: When I was sitting on the sidewalk, I was watching the other kids play. They would run by, then go up the slide, slide down and then run by again. When they'd run by, they'd look at me. I think they didn't know if I could play or not. I think they saw my arm and were afraid to ask what was wrong, and so were afraid to play with me. So they just kept playing. I think that happens to people in wheelchairs. People are afraid to talk to them because they don't know what is wrong with them, so they just ignore them. I think that is what the other kids thought.
As I remembered my daughter as a 5 year old, my eyes blurred with tears. Here she was at almost 26, doing an amazing job caring for her disabled son, Ethan. Ethan who is nearly 5 himself. Was God preparing Christina at 5 for what was to come years later? I looked over at Ethan. He was laughing and playing with his puppy. What could God be preparing him for at this tender age?
While getting ready for church, Christina mentioned that she and Ethan would join me. I was surprised, as it had been awhile. It is not easy taking Ethan to church. We never know if he will be able to sit that long or how quiet he will be. The Sunday School class is not always prepared to have him. They like to have one person to devote just to him. As my thoughts pondered what the morning might bring a memory came in to focus.
Ethan is now 4 1/2. By next fall, he will be old enough for kindergarten. I remembered Christina's first day of school at age 5. Along with the usual worries of a first-time mom sending her first child off to school, I had an added concern. My daughter was going with her arm in a cast that went from her hand to just under her armpit.
We'd taken our vacation at the end of summer. Arizona, naturally, to visit grandparents and cousins. While the adults were enjoying some much needed conversation, the kids played happily in the bedroom. Thud! No screams or crying, so we figured everything must be ok. Out walked Christina. One arm was cradling the other. The injured arm was bent at a 90 degree angle right in the middle of her forearm-a place that doesn't normally move or bend. I don't think I've ever moved so fast in my life.
At the hospital, I found I could not look at her arm without feeling faint. I was sure the contents of my stomach would come spilling out at any moment. It didn't help that I was 10 weeks pregnant. Thankfully, she did not have to have surgery to put everything back in place. We returned to Colorado with a momento from Arizona-a plaster cast. It was heavy and quite a weight on her thin little arm.
The first day of school Christina sported her very decorated but bulky cast. I was delighted to see her smile at the end of her very long, 2 1/2 hour day. We chatted on the drive home as she told me about her new teacher, the activity centers and books they'd read.
At home I wondered about recess. I'd been concerned about the possibility of her getting hurt or falling and injuring her arm further. So I asked her.
Me: How did recess go? What did you do?
Christina: I sat on the sidewalk and watched the kids play.
My heart was saddened. Had I frightened her with my warnings to be careful? Was she afraid to play? Before I had a chance to ask, she began to explain.
Christina: You know what mom? I think I know what a kid in a wheelchair feels like.
Me: What?
Christina: When I was sitting on the sidewalk, I was watching the other kids play. They would run by, then go up the slide, slide down and then run by again. When they'd run by, they'd look at me. I think they didn't know if I could play or not. I think they saw my arm and were afraid to ask what was wrong, and so were afraid to play with me. So they just kept playing. I think that happens to people in wheelchairs. People are afraid to talk to them because they don't know what is wrong with them, so they just ignore them. I think that is what the other kids thought.
As I remembered my daughter as a 5 year old, my eyes blurred with tears. Here she was at almost 26, doing an amazing job caring for her disabled son, Ethan. Ethan who is nearly 5 himself. Was God preparing Christina at 5 for what was to come years later? I looked over at Ethan. He was laughing and playing with his puppy. What could God be preparing him for at this tender age?
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