tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-371985432024-03-05T10:28:00.275-06:00Big Boots & Little Bare Feet"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" - Mary OliverNich_Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11484438225345080068noreply@blogger.comBlogger427125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-88010775016825388152016-06-26T16:52:00.002-05:002016-06-26T16:52:24.084-05:00To be Nourishment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the past several months, ever since I realized I would be approaching noticeable discomfort just in time for our city's annual fireworks celebration, I had been saying I would stay home this year with Little Lady (and that the guys could go on their own). </div>
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Well, guess who was the pushover of the day? </div>
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We headed over to the park after dinner, opting to drive part of the way instead of walking the entire way like we usually do. This ended up not being as great of an idea as we thought because: illogical drivers. It took us much longer to get home, but the kids were troopers! </div>
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They clearly take after their father.</div>
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Case in point: while we were waiting for the fireworks to start, I got grumpy because one of B's glow sticks hit me in the face (I had already asked him to stop throwing them around). And then A spilled an entire cup of lemonade on the blanket we were sitting on. Nich whisked the kids away for a potty break so I could compose myself (and not erupt!). </div>
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Tonight, after I had put A to bed, <a href="http://utmost.org/classic/receiving-one%E2%80%99s-self-in-the-fires-of-sorrow-classic/">I read this:</a> "You always know the man who has been through the fires of sorrow and received himself, you are certain you can go to him in trouble and find that he has ample leisure<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"> for you. If a man has not been through the fires of sorrow, he is apt to be contemptuous, he has no time for you. If you receive yourself in the fires of sorrow, God will make you nourishment for other people."</span></div>
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Oh, for the humility and teachable spirit to be true to who God has made me to be, even in times of sorrow and stress! And to be nourishment to those around me, even in the midst of adversity! </div>
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I crept into B's room to apologize for my grumps earlier and found him fast asleep ... and burning up with a 100+ fever. <i class="_lew" title="frown emoticon"><i aria-hidden="true" class="_4-k1 img sp_fM-mz8spZ1b sx_d55a98" style="background-image: url(https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/rsrc.php/v2/yx/r/pimRBh7B6ER.png); background-position: 0px -119px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i><span aria-hidden="true" class="_4mcd" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px;">:(</span></i> As I stroked his head and prayed healing over him, he reached up and held onto my arm in his sleep. </div>
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I'm so grateful for grace. Grace in every day, to try again and again, to be better, to be truer to who He has called me to be.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-57378615614530220812016-06-21T15:04:00.004-05:002016-06-21T15:04:58.338-05:00Trusting<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Only our closest friends (and a few others) know this: when I was pregnant with B, we had two major "scares." At a routine ultrasound (and the first appointment where Nich couldn't be with me), I learned that our precious firstborn had a cyst in his brain. The doctor who informed me of this was one I hadn't met previously, and she completely lacked compassion and patience for a stunned new mother. She abruptly delivered the news to me, told me I needed to schedule an immediat<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">e Level 2 ultrasound so they could get a better look at the baby's brain, and walked out of the room. I have crystal clear memories of numbly walking to my car in the pouring autumn rain and just sitting there in the cold, not knowing how to process this information I had just received.</span></div>
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And out of nowhere, God reminded me:<br />"’Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus,<br />Just to take Him at His Word.<br />Just to rest upon His promise<br />And to know, 'Thus saith the Lord!'<br />Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him!<br />How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er;<br />Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus!<br />Oh, for grace to trust Him more!"</div>
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I repeated that over and over in my head until the tears had stopped and I could call my husband without gasping for breath through my tears. We didn't tell anyone; we just prayed.</div>
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A few months later, following another ultrasound, we learned that his left kidney looked to be missing.</div>
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Another Level 2 ultrasound was scheduled. </div>
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Again, those lyrics ran through my head endlessly. And we prayed.</div>
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And in both instances, by the time we had gotten to the Level 2 ultrasound, the issues had been "resolved." </div>
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I know those were not medical flukes. I know those were moments of trust-building, of God teaching this Type A control freak early on that, ultimately, I was not, and am not, in control of my children's lives, health, or what have you. And <a href="http://proverbs31.org/devotions/devo/finding-peace-in-the-what-if-moments/?sf28844644=1">as this blogger</a> says, "It also showed me where peace is ultimately found: Not in pleasant circumstances or the feeling that 'all is well' in my child’s world, but in the palm of God’s hand as He allows whatever He will to come [their] way and mine."</div>
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I currently have a fairly large fibroid cyst sitting quite close to my cervix. It has the potential of blocking this baby's birth if it continues to grow and if it does not move over the remaining months. </div>
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I've been reminded repeatedly of God's faithfulness to us in the past, that He knows this little girl even better than I do, that He knows exactly what she looks like, what her personality will be, whether she'll have curls like her sister or soft, brown eyes like her brother. </div>
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Oh, for grace to trust Him more.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-46399239223148888042016-05-16T16:21:00.003-05:002016-05-16T19:51:48.080-05:00Loud and Clear!Sometimes, there are seasons when I wonder if God is even listening to a word I say. Not that I could blame him if he tuned me out, because sometimes, even I wish I could turn myself off. Once, even my ever-patient husband, upon hearing all the thoughts that had been running through my mind in a very short period of time, proclaimed, "It must be exhausting being you." I completely agree!<br />
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But then there are also times when God has something to say to me, and he repeats it again and again until there is absolutely no doubt that he's trying to get something through to me.<br />
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I tend to go at things on my own. Part of this is my personality, but part of it is also having moved thousands away from home as an eighteen-year old and virtually just having to sort of figure things out on my own since. Obviously, I had some help along the way, but there was no "calling home for help" back in the days of phone cards and before apps made international calls free and easy.<br />
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This year has been a toughie so far. And although I had mentioned a thing or two here and there to friends, posted an occasional event on social media, it hadn't occurred to me to voice the on-going flood of junk that has relentlessly rushed through our lives.<br />
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Last week, it all came to a head when my husband, thinking he had prepared me sufficiently by casually mentioning his recent episodes of nearly blacking out via text message, sent me a photo of himself ... on a bed ... hooked up to medical equipment. He was, unbeknownst to me, at the urgent care, and definitely not at work where I had thought him to be!<br />
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Maybe it's because I've just barely been maintaining a semblance of sanity, but I just sat at my desk and burst out crying when I got that picture. And out of desperation, I emailed a handful of friends (some my age, who could "lament" the challenges of this stage of life with me, and some who are ahead in their life journeys, who could tell me that there is hope). I briefly explained some of what had been going on (which I won't go into any detail here) and continued with this:<br />
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"And wouldn't you know it, the word I picked for this year was "GIFT"?!<br />
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So I've been looking. Looking in each day for the gifts.<br />
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Near the beginning of the year, I read a fictional story about a [man of God] who prayed, 'Lord, I hate buttermilk. I hate lard. I ain't too crazy about plain flour. But after you mix 'em all up and bake 'em in a hot oven, I just love the biscuits. Help us to realize that when life gets hard, when things come up that we don't like, whenever we don't understand what You are doing, that we need to wait and see what You're making. After all the mixing and baking, it'll probably be something even better than biscuits.'<br />
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My battle cry over the past few months has been, 'This WILL be better than biscuits!'<br />
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But today, I'm just plain weary. Weary and worried, and I'm here to ask you to please lift me/us up before the throne of God, that we would have the courage to continue to look for the gifts."<br />
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And because my friends are faithful in their friendships and in their willingness to pray when I feel like I have no more to say, the responses began pouring in immediately. Promises to pray, words of encouragement, Scripture reminders of God's faithfulness.<br />
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This past weekend, I had more energy than I have had in months. We were able accomplish quite a bit of work that needed to be done around our yard (still so much to do, but we made a noticeable dent!). And this morning, I woke up earlier than normal (okay, let's face it, GOD woke me up), and immediately, the words came out of my mouth, "Honey? Can we pray together?"<br />
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And the first words out of my faithful husband's mouth were: "Thank you for another day to live life on this earth with my family." He went on to ask God for continued opportunities to serve him and glorify him, that our family would shine the light of Jesus. I mean...<br />
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Then, during my morning quiet time, I cracked open the little book that our mentor mom at my MOMS table this year had gifted each of us at our last meeting. And I read this:<br />
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And THEN, after I put down my children for their naps, I got out my journal to write out today's Bible passage (following a Scripture writing plan I had agreed to do this month with a friend).<br />
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The thing is, I am terrible at praying for our own circumstances. It's so easy to pray for other people's needs. It's hard to put my own needs into words. So I often just gloss over them quickly in the midst of my other prayers with the hopes that, since God already knows what I need, he'll "get it." <br />
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Today, I've been reminded that praying about my own needs is not only NOT selfish, it's an act of faith and courage in itself. If I truly believe that prayer is a GIFT, then I need to accept it wholeheartedly for myself, too, with complete confidence that he WILL listen. And I don't have to tough it out on my own, <a href="http://www.belongtour.com/dont-go-chasing-waterfalls/">making it harder for myself in the process</a>.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-77093906763433966502016-02-22T12:34:00.002-06:002016-02-22T12:41:59.537-06:00That Dumb Ol' Cross<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"Why did Jesus have to carry that dumb ol' cross anyway?!" exclaimed our newly arrived at five years old son last night, as he looked at the candle-lined path of our table-top Lenten wreath.<br />
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We had just sat down to dinner, and he was already feeling a bit ornery, since his sister had gotten to open her birthday presents just beforehand.<br />
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But we heard the real question behind his seemingly impertinent one: Why didn't Jesus just tell all those people to get lost? Or better yet, why didn't He just do away with everyone who was opposing Him? In a little boy's black-and-white world where the heroes always triumph and the bad guys are always vanquished, it makes no sense that a perfect and all-powerful Jesus would have to endure suffering and death.<br />
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So often, when I'm faced with an overwhelming situation in my life, I want the easy way out. I want Jesus to fix it for me. When my eyes aren't on Jesus, I don't remember about beauty for ashes. I don't remember about His glory in my weakness.<br />
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I just want Him to make it better, and by better, I mean easy for me.<br />
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As I sat down at the table in the nap time quiet today, his question echoed again in my mind: Why did Jesus have to carry that dumb ol' cross anyway?<br />
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To my surprise, tears sprung up in my eyes as I remembered: He carried that dumb ol' cross for me. For you. For all of us.<br />
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<i>But the fact is, it was <b>our</b> pains he carried -- <b>our</b> disfigurements, all the things wrong with <b>us</b>. We thought he brought it on himself, that God was punishing him for his own failures. But it was our sins that did that to him, that ripped and tore and crushed him -- <b>our sins</b>! </i><br />
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<i>He took the punishment, and that has made us whole. </i><br />
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<i>Through his bruises we get healed. </i><br />
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<i>We're all like sheep who've wandered off and gotten lost. We've all done our own thing, gone our own way. </i><br />
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<i>And God has piled all our sins, everything we've done wrong, on him. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>On him. </i><br />
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<i>(</i>Isaiah 53:5-6)<br />
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Jesus didn't have to carry that dumb ol' cross.<br />
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He chose to.<br />
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The contemporary Christian church has brushed Lent aside, and most western Christians don't observe Lent at all.<br />
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I think we're missing out if we forget. Just as we take communion to remember Jesus' precious gift to us, the Lenten season is a gift.<br />
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A gift of remembrance.<br />
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A gift so that we might not forget the glorious love and beauty of that wonderful cross.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-78843343905121483602016-01-21T13:02:00.000-06:002016-01-21T13:04:40.301-06:00Just Ride the Potty TrainToday, the rumbles of thunder are so low, pellets of ice fall from the ominous Edgar Allan Poe sky up above, but there are rays of sunshine in my heart.<br />
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When I agreed to be on the launch team for Kristen Welch's new book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Raising-Grateful-Kids-Entitled-World/dp/1496405293">Raising Grateful Kids in an Entitled World</a>, I knew that I was probably cracking the door open for some spiritual warfare in our household. Living in America, it is so easy to dismiss the fact that there are constantly things happening in the unseen spiritual realm, but the manifestations of that ongoing battle is so clearly evident in the world around us. </div>
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And Kristen's book? It is going to shake things up. </div>
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So yeah. Yesterday.</div>
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Yesterday morning was beyond tough. After I had confessed to my husband on his lunch break that I thought I was screwing up our children and I didn't know the first thing about mothering and training these little people to be God's warriors, I put both kids to bed and crawled under my own covers, hoping that they would take long naps, because we all had to be up late (I had to take them to work with me, since Nich has extended work commitments all week). </div>
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I went to bed last night soul-weary and body-weary, thinking that if the trumpets started blowing and the seals began opening right about now, I would be okay with it (so selfish, I know). A night of intense, vivid dreams followed.</div>
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I slept past my alarm this morning and woke up to my boy snuggled next to me. I placed my hand on his warm little back and prayed over him. I prayed over his tall body, that he would continue to grow strong and tall, just as God made him. I prayed over his tender heart, that as aware as he is of people's attitudes toward him, that he would always be able to remember that he is first a child of God and that he is deeply loved. I prayed over his hands, that he would remember to be gentle, that he would use them to God's work. I prayed over his words, that he would speak kindness into the people around them. </div>
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And I cried at the thought of sending him off to preschool this morning after such a hard day yesterday. </div>
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But although he told me he didn't want to go to school today, once we pulled up, he hopped out without hesitation. His sister called out, "I wan kiss, Brubbie!" and he willingly complied, running around to her side of the car to give her a kiss and a squeeze, making her giggle. And he walked into school with a smile, even responding to the director's morning greeting with a cheerful, "Good morning, Miss Trish!" </div>
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God knew I needed that assurance.</div>
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I took Little Lady to the library afterward. After I let her put all the books into the drop off (both kids like to watch the books go down the conveyer belt and z-i-i-i-ip into their appropriate bins), she usually tries to run off to the kids' area right away. Today, she ran a few steps, then stopped and looked back at me. I said, "You need to wait for Mama, because I have to pick up my books, okay?" I got my books on hold, turned around, and she was standing there in the same position I had left her in. She caught my eye and said, "I waiting, Mama. Go inside now?" </div>
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God knew I needed an easy morning.</div>
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Then we stopped at a grocery store on the way home, and the people there are always so kind. I wish it was closer to our house, because I would go there all the time if I could. There is an older, Eastern European cashier named Judit who is so sweet to Little Lady. She tells me that it is good that my son is so tall and strong, that he was made just the way he was meant to be. And she tells me that my daughter is petite and surely meant to do ballet, because the "little ones are the best." </div>
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There is the tall, friendly black assistant manager who always greets us, talks to my children like they are real people, and just brings sunshine to my day. </div>
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And today, there was an older gentleman in the parking lot, getting into his bright lemon yellow Fiat with stripes the color of the Italian flag down the sides. His car fascinated Little Lady, and she pointing to it, exclaiming, "Car! Peety car!" He turned around and smiled such a kind smile, said hello and told her how pretty she was. And then he looked at me with those grandfatherly eyes and said, "She takes after her mama." </div>
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I wore no make up today. My hair is tousled and messy in the same haphazard bun I had it in yesterday (and slept in). I hadn't even showered. </div>
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You know how sometimes, you don't appreciate the small, good things until you've had a series of not-so-great things? </div>
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Well, all these things this morning were such gifts to my heart. A reminder that there is still so much kindness and generosity in this world. That not everybody is ignorant and abominably mean in their souls. That venturing out does not need to be a draining, soul-scarring experience every time. </div>
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That it can be an opportunity to smile with strangers and exchange joy. </div>
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And to always stop to laugh, because even your toddler participates in the joy-giving: "I go on potty-twain, Mama!" </div>
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Because when you're just shy of two years old, and you hear all about potty training, it must mean that it's going to be a fun ride!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Potty-Train-David-Hochman/dp/1416928332">Little did I know this morning that the Potty Train is a thing.</a></td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-41245921923232453362016-01-13T13:59:00.002-06:002016-01-21T13:41:26.750-06:00Sing a Song<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCln_e4mtJKXKoew_kwDwlxdnbmCyOz3KccICB1QmYxBjXTEGPkY2CQ0zntHrtLodNRdLAjB7ORNUVWQk1_LfjjUQbuYvXE_CbLOSmXVwsER_NSFlv4y6ULagc3RyNLOzG3Ay/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCln_e4mtJKXKoew_kwDwlxdnbmCyOz3KccICB1QmYxBjXTEGPkY2CQ0zntHrtLodNRdLAjB7ORNUVWQk1_LfjjUQbuYvXE_CbLOSmXVwsER_NSFlv4y6ULagc3RyNLOzG3Ay/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="237" /></a>One lesson that I am teaching my preschooler seemingly a hundred times a day is first-time obedience.<br />
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To do what I ask of him the first time I make the request.<br />
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I don't do this because I want to be a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lb8QEd0Rn8o">giant monster truck bearing down on the little truck</a> and crushing it. I do it because it is important for our children to learn to trust us as their parents, that we love them completely and always have their best interests in mind. He knows that it is all right to ask (respectful) questions, but the obedience needs to come first. His first response needs to be "Yes, Mama" before the protests of "I don't want to do that right now" or the ceaseless "Why?"<br />
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When parents are unsettled, the kids pick up on it. This past week has been rough, and although the children have been blissfully unaware of the gravity of how our circumstances have changed, they notice we (mostly me, since I'm the one they're around all day) are preoccupied. And in my case, I'm ashamed to say, more prone to becoming unhinged.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Get your gratitude bracelet <a href="http://shop.mercyhousekenya.org/product/gratitude-bracelet">HERE</a>.</td></tr>
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Of course, this is the week that I read Kristen Welch's newest book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Raising-Grateful-Kids-Entitled-World/dp/1496405293">Raising Grateful Kids</a>. Through some mysterious crossings of the web-o-sphere, I missed the initial emails that were sent out in the fall, and I only just got the book a week ago.<br />
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Clearly, this was not a coincidence.<br />
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Little Lady deals with external stress by singing. I've noticed that when her brother is getting in trouble, when there's tension as we're all running late to something in the car (usually church), when I get frustrated at the state of the house ... she sings.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's already "borrowing" my stuff.</td></tr>
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This may just be a coping mechanism for my toddler, but it's a life lesson for her mama.<br />
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Because that never-ending "Why?" from my preschooler?<br />
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That's me. All the time. With God.<br />
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Even while knowing in my head that He is good and faithful to provide, I want to know all the whys. I definitely don't sing my happy songs. I get hung up on all the whys and I have moments when I completely forget about joy. How entitled am I to get so bent out of shape over everything I don't have, everything I'm having to surrender? That I forget that all I have is by the grace of God and that all I don't have? Well, that it could just possibly be divine mercy.<br />
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I grew up in the capital city of the coastal nation of Cameroon in west Africa. It's a rainforest, and every year, we would get at least a handful of fairly substantial tropical storms. Sometimes, the area downtown where my dad worked would get flooded. Cars would have to be moved up the hills so they wouldn't get submerged under all the water. Gushing rust-colored streams would suddenly appear along the sides of the roads.<br />
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There was a tiny neighborhood near where we lived. And by neighborhood, I mean a handful of shacks constructed by some cement blocks and sheets of corrugated metal. They were arranged around a small dirt "yard" of sorts, and when it poured, that little yard would fill and fill and fill.<br />
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And the children would swim. They would shriek and jump and splash in that orange water.<br />
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Delight in the midst of the deluge.<br />
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I wonder if part of Jesus' call to his disciples in Matthew 18 wasn't just about the innocence of children, but whether it also encompasses their ability to find joy where we adults only see potential for stress, fear, and anxiety. That maybe the point is that healthy children are able to play and laugh, even when circumstances aren't ideal, because they trust that they are safe. Because they know their parents love them and have their best interests in mind.<br />
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How much more does my God love me and know what I need? How much more can I trust that, even though I don't like what's going on, even though I hate the uncertainty and the seeming injustice, He sees the entire tapestry and that this is His masterful plan for us? How much more can I rest assured that His plan is good, better than anything I could dream up?<br />
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Maybe, just maybe, God just wants me to learn to put aside my whys, jump into the rain, and sing my own happy songs, trusting that He's got this.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FGpcKbvGygPAa1zW9MIyEaLzcXet26KGu1caLPHwV3CPhgr4AuztS5xoolkGkT_JYMWPEuYkDIhMCTbSykGckYJh4pCjeVhQ-2MbxpchfBlGrgT-wQVM52h7fUzonYIzJvec/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FGpcKbvGygPAa1zW9MIyEaLzcXet26KGu1caLPHwV3CPhgr4AuztS5xoolkGkT_JYMWPEuYkDIhMCTbSykGckYJh4pCjeVhQ-2MbxpchfBlGrgT-wQVM52h7fUzonYIzJvec/s400/unnamed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
*<a href="http://wearethatfamily.com/2016/01/this-is-why-parenting-is-so-hard/">This is Why Parenting is So Hard</a> (<a href="http://wearethatfamily.com/">Kristen</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://courtneystanford.com/?p=1167">Teach Them to Give</a> (<a href="http://courtneystanford.com/">Courtney</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://happyturtlelife.com/blog/2016/1/19/inspiring-an-attitude-of-gratitude" target="_blank">Inspiring an Attitude of Gratitude </a> (<a href="http://happyturtlelife.com/">Alison</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://balutzfamily.blogspot.com/2016/01/rasing-grateful-kids.html" target="_blank">Raising Grateful Kids</a> (<a href="http://balutzfamily.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">amanda</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.bumblebirdblog.com/2016/01/15/why-you-cant-buy-gratitude-at-the-dollar-store/" target="_blank">Why You Can't Buy Gratitude At The Dollar Store</a> (<a href="http://bumblebirdblog.com/" target="_blank">Andrea</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.inspiringheartsandhomes.com/missing-gratefulnessinourhome/" target="_blank">Missing- Gratefulness in our home</a> (<a href="http://www.inspiringheartsandhomes.com/" target="_blank">Ange) </a><br />
*<a href="http://lifewithgreeneyes.wordpress.com/2016/01/18/choosing-gratitude/" target="_blank">Choosing Gratitude</a> (<a href="http://lifewithgreeneyes.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Angela</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.christacordova.com/2016/01/5-steps-to-gratitude-filled-family.html" target="_blank">5 Steps to Gratitude-Filled Family</a> (<a href="http://www.christacordova.com/" target="_blank">Christa</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.danaherndon.com/practicing-grateful-parenting" target="_blank">Practicing Grateful Parenting</a> (<a href="http://danaherndon.com/" target="_blank">Dana</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://bootsandfeet.blogspot.com/2016/01/sing-song.html" target="_blank">Sing a Song</a> (<a href="http://bootsandfeet.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Hannah</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://seejamieblog.com/cultivating-gratitude/" target="_blank">Cultivating Gratitude in Our Family</a> (<a href="http://seejamieblog.com/" target="_blank">Jamie</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://janabeard.com/2016/01/gratefulness-in-our-home/" target="_blank">Gratefulness in Our Home</a> (<a href="http://www.janabeard.com/" target="_blank">Jana</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.jenbaileywade.com/2016/01/let-it-begin-with-me.html" target="_blank">Let It Begin with Me</a> (<a href="http://jenbaileywade.com/" target="_blank">Jen</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://fivefoxlove.com/choosing-gratefulness/" target="_blank">Choosing Gratefulness</a> (<a href="http://www.fivefoxlove.com/" target="_blank">Jennifer</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://havefaitheveryday.com/2016/01/18/raising-grateful-kids-in-an-entitled-world-the-book/" target="_blank">Raising Grateful Kids in an Entitled World - The Book</a> (<a href="http://havefaitheveryday.com/">Jeri</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.mamarevivalseries.com/2016/01/eradicating-entitlement-what-are-you.html" target="_blank">Eradicating Entitlement - What are You Rooted in?</a> (<a href="http://www.mamarevivalseries.com/" target="_blank">Jessica</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.jonandkate2008.com/" target="_blank">Gratefulness in Our Home</a> (<a href="http://www.jonandkate2008.com/" target="_blank">Kate</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://heavenissmilingabove.blogspot.com/2016/01/7-unusual-ways-i-know-how-to-be-grateful.html" target="_blank">7 Unusual Ways I Know How to Be Grateful</a> (<a href="http://heavenissmilingabove.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Kathryn</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://livinginthisseason.com/raising-grateful-kids-mama-shares/" target="_blank">Raising Grateful Kids</a> (<a href="http://livinginthisseason.com/" target="_blank">Keri</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://lifeinlapehaven.com/2016/01/19/children-remind-me-to-pray-gratitude/" target="_blank">How My Children Remind Me to Pray with Gratitude</a> (<a href="http://www.lifeinlapehaven.com/" target="_blank">Kishona</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://notesfromamama.blogspot.com/2016/01/grateful.html" target="_blank">Grateful</a> (<a href="http://notesfromamama.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Kristy</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://thebalchusfamily.blogspot.com/2016/01/the-ugly-truth-of-beautiful-lie.html?m=1" target="_blank">Entitlement: The Ugly Truth of a Beautiful Lie</a> (<a href="http://thebalchusfamily.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Leigha</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.lindseymbell.com/the-most-important-thing-you-can-do-to-raise-grateful-kids/" target="_blank">The Most Important Thing You Can Do to Raise Grateful Kids</a> (<a href="http://www.lindseymbell.com/" target="_blank">Lindsey</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.marieosborne.com/2016/01/teach-you-to-be-grateful-without-guilt" target="_blank">Dear Son: How Do I Teach You to Be Grateful without Guilt?</a> (<a href="http://www.marieosborne.com/" target="_blank">Marie</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://untoadoption.org/gratitude-a-practical-definition/" target="_blank">Gratitude: A Practical Definition</a> (<a href="http://untoadoption.org/" target="_blank">Mia</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.craftingmyworld.blogspot.com/2016/01/cultivating-gratitude-in-our-home.html" target="_blank">Cultivating Gratitude in Our Home</a> (<a href="http://craftingmyworld.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Nancy</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.cranberryteatime.com/2016/01/learning-gratitude-through-chronic.html" target="_blank">Learning Gratitude through Chronic Illness</a> (<a href="http://www.cranberryteatime.om/" target="_blank">Rachel</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://lookingformarbles.com/being-grateful/" target="_blank">Being Grateful</a> (<a href="http://www.lookingformarbles.com/" target="_blank">Rebecca</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.sarahefrazer.com/2016/01/ive-found-something-i-cant-live-without" target="_blank">I've Found Something I Can't Live Without</a> (<a href="http://www.sarahefrazer.com/" target="_blank">Sarah</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://www.sarahdamaska.com/?p=2508" target="_blank">The Power of Naming our Gifts</a> (<a href="http://sarahdamaska.com/">Sarah</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://sarahjoburch.blogspot.com/2016/01/outfitted_19.html" target="_blank">Outfitted</a> (<a href="http://www.sarahjoburch.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Sarah Jo</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://celebrateheartandhome.com/gratefulness/growing-gratitude" target="_blank">Growing Gratitude in Our Family </a>(<a href="http://celebrateheartandhome.com/" target="_blank">Sondra</a>)<br />
*<a href="http://mrsbishop.com/2016/01/teaching-gratefulness.html" target="_blank">Teaching Gratefulness</a> (<a href="http://mrsbishop.com/" target="_blank">Stephanie</a>)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-43457778234568444222016-01-11T19:17:00.002-06:002016-01-11T19:17:49.765-06:00He is Good. He is Faithful.<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="dif4-0-0" style="color: #373e4d; direction: ltr; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="dif4-0-0">Almost exactly a year ago, our garbage disposal quit working, our dishwasher went kaput, and our water heater leaked all over the garage and into our kitchen (and had to be replaced). The children's birthdays were coming up soon. There were a couple other smaller things that had occurred, too, and it didn't just feel like it was "pouring." It felt more like a torrential tropical thunderstorm. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="b627n-0-0">And we later discovered that while we were struggling through all this, that the people with whom we were supposed to be "doing life" were ignorantly talking about us without our knowledge, judging us for what we couldn't give and how we spent our children's birthday money from family. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="b627n-0-0">Even worse? </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="b627n-0-0">We learned that we weren't the first ones to whom this had happened.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="v2g7-0-0">It was a challenging time. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="700r7-0-0">And yet. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="31ngg-0-0">We received a "gift" from a family member to help us with a new dishwasher. My resourceful husband replaced all those appliances himself (with the help of knowledgeable friends for the water heater). I was reminded that we have a safe and warm home, and if there was cake, friends, and party favors, the kids would be perfectly content. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="31ngg-0-0">He is good and faithful. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="31ngg-0-0">And yet.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="baqo1-2-0">Last week, we learned of a sudden change to my husband's compensation plan that will greatly impact our lives this year. We're still adjusting to the idea. Some of the hopes and dreams we had just discussed a few days prior had to be surrendered, once again. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5f4r4-0-0">And friends, I was bitter and resentful. I tried to keep my chin up, to remain positive, to remind myself and my husband about God's goodness and faithfulness. But eventually, the thought of returning to scraping by month to month, depending on our savings to get us through, of perhaps having to give up our Compassion child, sweet Darwin who shares a birthday with our own little boy, of having to fight the battles of being on WIC and rude shoppers in the grocery lines, my children having to get poked and pricked and examined, to having to humbly ask for reimbursements for registrations we had already made for various activities for the kids this spring ... and yes, the dreams. The dreams of things we had waited for so long and that we had thought this was the year they would happen. The dreams I can't even talk about on here because they feel so raw and personal. My ungrateful, all-too-easily overwhelmed heart succumbed to the fear of the uncertainties ahead, and I spent the majority of the past weekend hiding under the covers.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5f4r4-0-0">And yet. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5f4r4-0-0">The word God gave me for this year was Gift. A challenge to see Gifts in every day, in every circumstance. To be a Gift to those around me.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5f4r4-0-0">Not even two weeks into the new year, and I was falling flat on my face, humbled before God and my family, broken in my utter humanity. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="5f4r4-0-0">It was in the midst of all this that I learned that I was on the launch team for <a href="http://wearethatfamily.com/">Kristen Welch</a>'s new book, Raising Grateful Kids in an Entitled World. And as much as I *wanted* to jump into it, I opened that file and it just sat there for days, mocking me for being selfish and unfaithful, and how dare I share about raising grateful kids when I couldn't even muster up the courage to be grateful myself? </span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="5f4r4-0-0" style="color: #373e4d; direction: ltr; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">A strong sense of duty and obligation to follow through on my commitments has always been at the forefront of my nature, and it was only through sheer determination that I cracked open the first page of this book.</span></span><div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUFjADZAYemSTsQ5r96YJg0V3gWfCCBuL1ywsBF1q31fqWLLJniZADtQ0NvrpJ3_dYem3tME5NLaitLKaP34NvxZpgBj5y8hu6CLALlksUBGQT4pi8mC_gmeHG9ecz9j6N17Jr/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-01-11+at+6.16.49+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUFjADZAYemSTsQ5r96YJg0V3gWfCCBuL1ywsBF1q31fqWLLJniZADtQ0NvrpJ3_dYem3tME5NLaitLKaP34NvxZpgBj5y8hu6CLALlksUBGQT4pi8mC_gmeHG9ecz9j6N17Jr/s400/Screen+Shot+2016-01-11+at+6.16.49+PM.png" width="398" /></a><span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes, we need a gentle correction. Sometimes, we need a firm rebuke. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Reading this book has been both for me. It is so very easy to get all caught up in what we're missing and what we can't have that we forget how much we have been given already. I forget that my highest duty to my children as the mother that God chose for them is to love them. And to love them some more. And part of that is teaching them that sometimes, we can't afford the extras (without the impatience seeping into my voice). </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can't begin to say that I understand God's ways at all. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do know that He has been faithful and good to His people for all eternity, and that even if He will have us walk through the desert again this year, He will not leave our little family stranded, that He will walk with us. I do know that He has placed friends in my life, dear friends from all walks of my life, who will pray me through when I ask them to, even from afar. I do know that He is with the poor in spirit, those of us who are confronted with our own wretchedness every single day. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today, I am grateful for the Gift of perspective, that Jesus bore all this hurt, anger, and ugly brokenness so that I could have the courage to get out of bed, to love and care for my small children, to go to the interview for a temporary childcare position during the time B is at school, to say yes to another opportunity for work. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">He is Good. He is Faithful. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">He is Good. He is Faithful.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">He is Good. He is Faithful.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Perspective. </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-71634788577154949852016-01-07T13:13:00.001-06:002016-01-07T13:56:49.652-06:00Epiphany Cleansing<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="173er-0-0" style="color: #373e4d; direction: ltr; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="173er-0-0">Okay, I'm a chronic over thinker, so those of you who have better things to do with your next ten minutes, please move on. Because this is going to have you realizing just how weird and exhausting my mind really is. </span><br />
<span data-offset-key="173er-0-0">And no, this is not at all about any kind of dietary cleanse. Because few things in this world could motivate me to drink all my fruits and vegetables for days on end. I like the flavor and the crunchy in my food, thank you.</span></div>
<div class="_45m_ _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="173er-0-0" style="color: #373e4d; direction: ltr; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span data-offset-key="173er-0-0">So.</span><br />
<span data-offset-key="173er-0-0">The ideal of simplicity is a Trendy Thing right now in terms of material ownership. But lately, I've been increasingly convinced that for me, more than stuff, it's superficial relationships that clutter up my life and my thoughts. Social media makes this even more challenging. I've never been the sort of person who does well with having hundreds of acquaintances. Being an incredibly relational person, it was actually draining to my soul to feel this inner propensity to maintain relationships with all these 1200+ people, most of whom I hadn't heard from in years. And because nostalgia and sentimentality often gets the better of me, I had accepted and kept them on my list.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRfZLb3DYIKm3dvGndh5o2PtHN4vJiHuyLICmsQLPJxFJ4U3TKcr-Zg9hzzt342gm2KACMeYiHNZ_Mhtf1ED1sLDe-FvqyhHm7qTp-nWGvKQE9SR7MtwSEdCapZtJLapfsvSzW/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-01-07+at+1.17.29+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRfZLb3DYIKm3dvGndh5o2PtHN4vJiHuyLICmsQLPJxFJ4U3TKcr-Zg9hzzt342gm2KACMeYiHNZ_Mhtf1ED1sLDe-FvqyhHm7qTp-nWGvKQE9SR7MtwSEdCapZtJLapfsvSzW/s400/Screen+Shot+2016-01-07+at+1.17.29+PM.png" width="400" /></a><span data-offset-key="167r5-0-0">This is why, several years ago, I took the plunge and nearly halved my Friends List. Having lived the sort of lifestyle where people were always coming and going, including myself, I've met thousands and thousands of people. Add to that my husband's family, friends, and acquaintances, some of whom I've never met or who are rarely, if ever, in touch, and it's a little overwhelming. But knowing or knowing of all these people that doesn't mean they're all my friends, nor does it mean I have to maintain this superficial relationship with them. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="167r5-0-0">Now I know this isn't applicable to everybody. I mean, a lot of people just post their stuff, wait for their friends and followers to put their seal of enthusiasm on it with that little blue "Like" button, and they move on to the next thing. I know a whole lot of people who rarely engage with anybody on social media and who just kind of lurk around when the feeling strikes.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="167r5-0-0">The thing is, I have to be on social media for two of my jobs. And I have such a love/hate relationship with it. I love how it keeps me connected with some truly beautiful people from my past lives. But I also sincerely feel like I've witnessed some of the ugliest interactions between people on there and seen such horrific and ignorant things posted -- even by people I know. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="167r5-0-0">And I sit here wondering, is this even how we were meant to live? Witnessing these little glimpses into all these people's lives without really knowing most of them? </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="167r5-0-0">And what of those people who you knew over a decade, two decades ago? I mean, let's face it. Most of us think that our high school friends will be our bosom buddies for life. But honestly, I can count on one hand the friends who have stayed real friends over the years, and that's including a few that I wasn't even very close to back then. And yet, my Friends List is full of hundreds of those schoolmates, simply for the shared experience of four (or less than) years of adolescence. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="167r5-0-0">What's even more awkward is that you gear yourself up every year for the uncomfortable task of managing your list (deciding that if I haven't had any sort of personal interaction with a certain person over the past few years, it's time to remove them), finally accomplish the task, get over the inevitable resulting feelings of guilt and then, in the course of the following year, those same people you deleted send you friend requests. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="167r5-0-0">I don't even know what to do with that. Why are we going to continue being "friends" just so we can continue ignoring each other?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's even weirder than people who I've never met in real life requesting to be my friend.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, I know that you can categorize your list, and I've done that. I have nice, neat little categories ranging from close friends and family to people who are just acquaintances. Because I don't want the entire world, their mothers, and their BFF's BF knowing about my life and thoughts. But even with those settings, it wears me out. With each post, I have to consider which categories of friends I'm going to share it with. Not to mention I feel like I have some sort of obligation to "like" photos of people's kids and pets, even though I've never met them (the kids and pets) and I never talk to those people anymore. And then there are those people you see from time to time in real life, so it would be really weird to remove them from your list, but at the same time, they're kind of a bummer to your soul.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes, I know. Boundaries. I need to learn some.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But seriously? </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Life was a lot easier before social media's definition of "Friend" took over. Can't we please call it a "Contacts" list? </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Am I alone here? Am I the only one who thinks that "Friend" sound signify something other than just being linked through the webosphere?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373e4d; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Okay. I'm done now. Back to packing up Christmas. </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-18963950429667161682016-01-01T16:53:00.002-06:002016-01-18T22:56:47.880-06:00One Word<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4c3r7kP0OWmLRtwJlIhuXS8kD_WscsqFEqh3WNBuQk9jyrKY9Vd4vSdWo4_KDZCu9GQ3mh7QxXBp-F81ExJKrsjo5zmjXwl4t33dfVv-JsYfJ6rVpOydiF8bbhEF_Daqpzo8/s1600/12360259_825690253954_1099766887948377447_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4c3r7kP0OWmLRtwJlIhuXS8kD_WscsqFEqh3WNBuQk9jyrKY9Vd4vSdWo4_KDZCu9GQ3mh7QxXBp-F81ExJKrsjo5zmjXwl4t33dfVv-JsYfJ6rVpOydiF8bbhEF_Daqpzo8/s400/12360259_825690253954_1099766887948377447_n.jpg" width="300" /></a>Somehow, I missed the boat on this last year. I was too stressed out, too stretched thin, beginning to unravel, and deciding on a word for the year was <a href="http://elitedaily.com/money/science-simplicity-successful-people-wear-thing-every-day/849141/">one more decision I just couldn't make</a>.<br />
<br />
I am in a much better and healthier place on this first day of 2016.<br />
<br />
I've been mulling over <a href="http://blog.compassion.com/one-word/">my word for the year</a> since I received my prompt from Compassion last month. And recently, <a href="http://www.jamiesmucker.com/one-word-a-different-kind-of-new-years-resolution/">my beautiful friend Jamie</a> shared her own word for the year and asked if her readers had their own words.<br />
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It came to me in the shower this afternoon, a moment of quiet solitude as my love rocked our small toddler for her nap. I was content, reflecting on the morning of gathering around the table together for our pancake breakfast, laughing and shrieking outside in the safety of our own backyard, being ever so grateful for this home, this sanctuary from the rest of the world, where we can build a safe haven together for all who dwell within these walls.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQMY0xWHdRrK3PqQoIpJmAXNtf68zAt55ZylvRLnPeZYypcMjfMn43uM_XxUR15y_6Di92dZi-lExKeLwGuEvqiNGqlt5nz9O3csb4x2jeu6RG_ZjFzdLWPnA2EnqshwcJuOW/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQMY0xWHdRrK3PqQoIpJmAXNtf68zAt55ZylvRLnPeZYypcMjfMn43uM_XxUR15y_6Di92dZi-lExKeLwGuEvqiNGqlt5nz9O3csb4x2jeu6RG_ZjFzdLWPnA2EnqshwcJuOW/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="300" /></a>Because, you see, a couple of days ago, we were at a playground nearby. It is a very cool playground, one of our favorites around here. We've always had fun there, and because we had all been cooped up inside for several days with all the rain and we had spent longer than desirable in a long line at the post office, I made the spontaneous decision to take the kids to this playground.<br />
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I was pushing Little Lady on the swings while her brother ran off, delighted to be able to run full throttle. Suddenly, I heard an adult female voice screeching, "Hey! Back off! You! Back off right now!" Alarmed, I looked up to see Little B on a ladder, two steps below another, smaller, child. He was indeed too close to the other kid, who was wailing, clearly nervous about being up so high with a boy he didn't know so close to him. I picked up Little Lady and walked over to remind B to give other kids space. As I passed up the yelling woman, I heard her scoff to the person next to her, "Tiger mom nothing. I'm a tiger grandma. No one messes with my grandkid."<br />
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I was immediately irritated, because really. In what world is it okay for a grown adult to yell at a preschooler on a playground and then feel justified and even proud about it? Why couldn't see have just kindly said, "Hey, buddy. Johnny's just learning about climbing ladders, and you're a little too close to him. Why don't you let him climb up first?" In half a century of life on this earth, shouldn't a person have learned a little sumthin' sumthin' about basic kindness and civility?<br />
<br />
But truly, the kicker came when three boys (Little B in the middle) went down the long tunnel slide simultaneously and the kid at the bottom got squished. He emerged wailing, and his mother began yelling at B, who had run off, "Hey! Hey, YOU. Don't you EVER hit my kid again!" Then she turned to her child and said, loudly enough for all to hear, "Stay away from that nasty kid. He isn't a nice kid at all. You just stay away from him."<br />
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It broke my heart. I had to bite my tongue to keep the tears at bay. I let Little Lady go down the slide one more time, and then I said to B, "Okay. It's time to go. We'll go home and play in the yard." I felt a God-nudge in my heart, so as I walked by that woman, I said, "I'm sorry if my son hurt yours. But it's not okay for you to label him unkindly." And with a disgusted expression on her face, she retorted, "He's not a nice kid." I said, "No, what he DID wasn't nice, but he's FOUR and he's learning about self-control, like all of us. We're working with him, but he's NOT a mean child. And you're not teaching anyone kindness by labeling him as such." Her husband jumped in and said, with that I'm-going-to-intimidate-you-and-stare-you-down-because-I'm-a-man look, "Our kids have never hit another kid. We are parenting just fine. If you're going to throw it in our face, then we'll throw it right back in yours."<br />
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I stared at him in shock, thinking, "What are we, in grade school?" Pretty much, by this point, I lost all inclination to shine my little light and felt an overwhelming urge to punch their smug faces. So as we walked away, with my voice shaking from my attempt to stay in control, I quietly said to my kids, "It's time to leave. This is not a safe place right now."<br />
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It grieved me -- and it still does -- that we live in a world where rambunctious little boys are told they are "nasty" for being a little too uninhibited for an adult world, where parks and playgrounds are not safe places for children to learn about kindness and sharing and respecting one another, that adults fight children's battles and feel proud of themselves for it, that we can't just freaking BE NICE.<br />
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I love my children fiercely, but I hate that parenting is just so damn hard in this world of every man for himself. I hate that it's made worse by people who are so consumed with protecting their own precious snowflakes that they don't consider how they are treating the people around them, what they're teaching their little ones about decency and kindness.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZ3L5EuNojmFrygEbxDNK4_wxCQmbr34ebH9hYJFqL8X91p3RR0lXWJ0kpotB246QL-REjcFLkyMYX_6J27F_cDTR2BUlph_x5fAb7FTkK_l2oNHx4g-FWuFPOFIxwDo3_HCF/s1600/FullSizeRender-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZ3L5EuNojmFrygEbxDNK4_wxCQmbr34ebH9hYJFqL8X91p3RR0lXWJ0kpotB246QL-REjcFLkyMYX_6J27F_cDTR2BUlph_x5fAb7FTkK_l2oNHx4g-FWuFPOFIxwDo3_HCF/s400/FullSizeRender-2.jpg" width="300" /></a>I recently read a white mother's plea to other white mothers to teach their children about standing up for what's right, to look out for one another, because she was legitimately worried for her black son's safety in a white world. And when I shared that on social media, it grieved me to hear a white friend tell the story of how her black husband had been treated this past Christmas during their trip back to her hometown.<br />
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How I long for a better world, friends. A world where there is no such blatant ignorance and unkindness, a world where people don't feel justified in talking down to another human being simply because their skin colors are different or they are of a different socio-economic class. Where we can all just exist on this beautiful, broken world, trying our best, and nodding to one another, "I know it's hard. Keep it up. We're going to make it."<br />
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When Little B was born on that wintry weekend in upstate NY, my mothering heart kicked into overdrive. I desperately wanted to keep him safe, wanted to protect him from the evil that I knew was out there, especially the kind of evil that attacks simply because we are the "other." For all the ways in which I was laid-back as a mom (no helicoptering here), there were just as many ways in which I have held my breath, bracing myself for the attack to come. We began praying in earnest that the Lord would open doors for us to move away from a place where I had been called names I had never before been called in my close to three decades on this earth. All because I didn't look like hardly anyone else around there.<br />
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We rejoiced when the opportunity to move to Dallas arose, and we scoured the websites of all the surrounding suburbs, determined not to move to another monocultural/monoethnic city. We resolved not to live in our current town, because from all we could gather from the city's website, it was upper class, white, and privileged. Not where we wanted to live and raise our biracial children.<br />
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And of course, week after week went by, house after house fell through, until we fell in love with our small little blue house, smack in the middle of that very town.<br />
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Last week, tornados ripped through our area, taking lives and leaving destruction and broken hearts in their wake. We sat in our hall bathroom together during the sirens, listening to the wind. I was thankful for my husband's calm, for his prayers for safety. I laughed at our small daughter's protests against her father's singing and our son's irritation at having his Christmas gift opening disrupted. I found peace in my son's suggestion that Jesus "just take us to heaven until the tornado is gone and then bring us back" because in this moment of fear, he expressed such an unwavering faith in Jesus as his ultimate hero.<br />
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I thought of how, had things gone the way we had wanted, we would have lived in Garland. We would have lived right where one of those giant tornados had grounded, ending the earthly lives of several people, instead of just a few miles further northwest, in the safety of this town we call home for now. Where our little home is still intact, even with all the issues of an older house, where we have good neighbors and a backyard oasis, with all its leaves-and-dog-poo-strewn glory.<br />
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As I stood there, I was reminded of one of my favorite verses from scripture, that there is a purpose to all things, that God does nothing randomly, that all things work together for His glory. That He places (active verb) us exactly where we are, in the time He wants, with intentionality and purpose. That, as <a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/">Ann Voskamp</a> reminds me daily, that all is a gift from Him.<br />
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My word this year is <b>Gift</b>.<br />
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Today, as the hot water washed away the suds, leaving behind clean skin, I felt the anger and resentment wash away, too. And I realized that this is what I desperately need. To seek out the <b>Gifts</b>, big and small, in each day. To be immensely grateful at this one wild and precious life. That even as I exclaim to my husband in the middle of small children chaos, "I am NOT cherishing this moment!" there are <b>Gifts</b>. The <b>gift</b> of healthy children, the <b>gift</b> of a good husband, the <b>gift</b> of daily laughter with my best friend, even if the source of that laughter is the ludicrous irrationality of preschoolers and toddlers.<br />
<br />
I began keeping a gratitude journal several years ago, after reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/One-Thousand-Gifts-Fully-Right/dp/0310321913/ref=pd_sim_14_1?ie=UTF8&dpID=51vwNtXh1sL&dpSrc=sims&preST=_AC_UL160_SR112%2C160_&refRID=1V8MGTRT4SQ9GQW3R0RB">One Thousand Gifts</a>. With the busyness of the fall and holiday seasons, I stopped keeping record a few months ago. This year, I resolve to not only make recording the <b>Gifts</b> a priority, but <a href="http://compassion.com/">to be more of a <b>Gift</b></a> to this world, to my community, yes, even to fifty-something-year-old Mean Girls, as He intended for us all to be.<br />
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<a href="http://oureverlastingdwellingplace.blogspot.com/2015/12/daughters-of-eve.html">Another dear friend</a> shared this prayer by Carter Heyward on her blog, and I felt it was an appropriate way to enter into this new beginning with hope for all good things and grace for the times in which we stumble.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Holy God, we have left undone those things </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Which we ought to have done,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And we have done those things</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Which we ought not to have done.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Yet, by thy grace, there is health in us!</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In thy mystery, carry us on.</i></div>
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<i>As we bring unity and joy, humble us.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>As we bring division and pain, forgive us.</i></div>
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<i>In our struggling, strengthen us.</i></div>
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<i>In our stumbling, lift us.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When we weep, comfort us.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When we laugh, enjoy us. Amen.</i></div>
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<br />
Want to start keeping your own journal of <b>Gifts</b>? DaySpring is having a <a href="http://www.dayspring.com/promos/5-journal-flash-sale?utm_source=Sailthru&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=20160101%20-%20Journals%20Flash%20Sale&utm_term=DaySpring%20Deals">$5 flash sale</a> on some of their beautiful journals! I use <a href="http://www.dayspring.com/joyforeverydaychristianjournal">these ones</a>.*<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*I don't profit from DaySpring. I just love their products! </i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-37465349416181694142015-12-20T14:40:00.005-06:002015-12-30T13:57:42.643-06:00Dishes<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcIcCd1QKWWfI-rPAFKSwPNwPe02xEfqDLyOxfIwpznW_C5_8wIk2lXk4ZeuWHAyc8LOQZjEqC1uTHyQwiKYgstD2M2lCCZyFqTfo7GCbGqk-LTnE1mk-m8rSIoM_ROeCT3kq9/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-12-20+at+2.29.42+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcIcCd1QKWWfI-rPAFKSwPNwPe02xEfqDLyOxfIwpznW_C5_8wIk2lXk4ZeuWHAyc8LOQZjEqC1uTHyQwiKYgstD2M2lCCZyFqTfo7GCbGqk-LTnE1mk-m8rSIoM_ROeCT3kq9/s400/Screen+Shot+2015-12-20+at+2.29.42+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Source: wisegeek.com</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A seemingly long time ago, in what feels like a past life, I lived in New York City. I didn't have a church home there, because my days started before the sun dawned and ended well into the night. It was a stretch for me to attend a church service on Sunday mornings, and I didn't have the time or emotional energy to invest in finding or building relationships.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I did, however, have the privilege of visiting some pretty well-known churches, like Redeemer Presbyterian (where, unfortunately, someone stole my favorite brown jacket at the time).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A very large, prominent church in Brooklyn was another one, and yes, their choir IS incredible in person.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">This post stems from my second visit to the latter of those two churches.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I remember absolutely nothing from the sermon except this, and that is why it holds any significance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The pastor was preaching on 2 Timothy 2:1. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"If you keep yourself pure, you will be a special utensil for honorable use. Your life will be clean, and you will be ready for the master to use you for every good work." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">To illustrate this point, he told this story: "When you wash dishes, and you only soap up the outside, the dish is still dirty, because you didn't get any of the grime on the inside." So far, so good, right? Then he continued, "But if you scrub the inside, the outside will be clean, too."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Wait, what? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I thought, "There is a man who never washes dishes."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ever since then, every time I wash dishes by hand, I have thought about that pastor and his words. And truly, it makes my least favorite household chore just a tiny bit more enjoyable. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But here's the true point to all this: a bad sermon illustration has the potential to be just as memorable as a good one. My high school choir director once told us to never sing words of which we did not know the meaning (we were singing a song in Latin, I believe, for our Christmas concert that year). Countless writing teachers have admonished their students to not write about things of which they know nothing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The same should be said of pastors. Preach not on that which you have no knowledge. If you're not sure, then ask, because you never know what you'll be remembered for. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wonder if it would have given that pastor pause if he knew that someday, nearly a decade later, a woman in Texas would be remembering him for how he didn't know how to do dishes properly.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-29727796884032131582015-05-07T12:57:00.000-05:002015-05-08T20:39:52.810-05:00Thank You, Mama: A Compassion Post<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivS6t6DU18AT98ziC8az5UXjkgsHhGsp3RjQpytltfWB6HpmiP4GwBlMFNywLs07QuK4hm82v4fVGwQ3WGgk3KW1iOIQJleBMw0Mm_iC6wmXRrWj60tCgRL9OFiVSPwOlQdLHn/s1600/255777_503273185344_7476_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivS6t6DU18AT98ziC8az5UXjkgsHhGsp3RjQpytltfWB6HpmiP4GwBlMFNywLs07QuK4hm82v4fVGwQ3WGgk3KW1iOIQJleBMw0Mm_iC6wmXRrWj60tCgRL9OFiVSPwOlQdLHn/s400/255777_503273185344_7476_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZmda4qXtkLqq9pE-Uf6mj2pnwuSd1HcDxxoWZjdGqvFpOgbn_upgFHuy5kikkPsn0fxvZf7PK0TccCDFjC1y2tQBWQQmulYb9jWjZ0q5G-nQvI9weK3a_BphnnbkRwcF4Wj0r/s1600/36201_520826144074_8122005_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZmda4qXtkLqq9pE-Uf6mj2pnwuSd1HcDxxoWZjdGqvFpOgbn_upgFHuy5kikkPsn0fxvZf7PK0TccCDFjC1y2tQBWQQmulYb9jWjZ0q5G-nQvI9weK3a_BphnnbkRwcF4Wj0r/s200/36201_520826144074_8122005_n.jpg" width="150" /></a>Our dishwasher has been broken for over a week now. <br />
<br />
As I wash
countless plates, utensils, bowls, sippy cups, water bottles, and lunch
containers, I've been thinking a lot about my mom. My resilient mama,
who raised us in a developing country, without many of the luxuries and
conveniences I have as a young mother. <br />
<br />
Without being able to
just pick up the phone and call a pediatrician, much less a reliable
doctor, whenever one of us spiked a high temperature. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerBNL6Jq8gu3YLatgOZyDryxnFv4odPSdvbqKiVWqWiRwjpqpo1TM_wrUGsDtyaB4W_2lFfUd_hGkXHgh1XOzBqXTPxbq0E3a_3jm_FD6JKhg8V-X8OrilXqfCZAYf_cnHaXm/s1600/36201_520823494384_8045774_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerBNL6Jq8gu3YLatgOZyDryxnFv4odPSdvbqKiVWqWiRwjpqpo1TM_wrUGsDtyaB4W_2lFfUd_hGkXHgh1XOzBqXTPxbq0E3a_3jm_FD6JKhg8V-X8OrilXqfCZAYf_cnHaXm/s200/36201_520823494384_8045774_n.jpg" width="150" /></a>Who wiped away the red, red dust of west Africa off our floors and
furniture every day with just a damp rag, because there were no such
things as Swiffers there. <br />
<br />
Being hundreds and thousands of miles
away from her own mama, sending her faded blue airmail letters and
cassette tapes of me singing favorite children's songs and reading
stories as a young child.<br />
<br />
And truly doing it all on her own, because without being fluent in the languages of her host culture, there
weren't a whole lot of friends to pick from, no one to really offer her a
support system whatsoever.<br />
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Thank you, mama. <br /><br />
*As you pray over your Compassion children, please also remember <a href="http://blog.compassion.com/thanks-mom/">their precious mamas</a>, who are working so hard and sacrificing so much so their children can have better futures. <br />
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<i class="_4-k1 img sp_32ASGMp6iEh sx_6d1ba6"><u> </u></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-79565496099458917582015-03-27T11:33:00.002-05:002015-03-27T11:46:12.155-05:00Excitement before Eight O'ClockYesterday afternoon, we picked up Little Man from preschool, and on the ride home, he informed me that while some of his classmates sat down, he got to stand up, because "I'm veh-wy tall for my age." It took me a second to register what he was talking about, and then I remembered that it had been class picture day.<br />
<br />
He did look rather dapper yesterday.<br />
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Little Lady was dressed up, too, for a morning playing with the other babies at MOMS Connection.<br />
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After I had tucked B in for his nap, A had her afternoon snack by the kitchen window. It is probably her favorite lookout spot in the entire house, because quite often, there are squirrels, bunnies, and all manner of birds out there (doves, bluejays, cardinals, and robins are the most frequent visitors). We also catch frequent glimpses of our dear neighbors, because they have a friendly, low iron fence around their yard, and they enjoy gardening and have beautiful blooms throughout the warmer season.<br />
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Yesterday, she watched with great fascination as a couple men mowed our neighbors' yard. In fact, she was so enthralled with the proceedings next door that, when she got thirsty, she signed for water and took her cup without taking her eyes off of the lawn mower. Those guys have no idea what a captivated audience they had!<br />
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After snack time, we went outside for some swinging and saw that a few of our irises had opened up. I had noticed the buds a few days ago, and I have been anticipating the first blooms for <a href="http://bootsandfeet.blogspot.com/2015/01/soul-feeding.html">some cut flowers</a>.<br />
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<br />
So this morning, while B was having his breakfast, I grabbed some scissors and popped out back to gather some flowers for our dining room table. <br />
<br />
Soon thereafter, I heard B come outside, the dog trotting after him. He was holding a picture he had been working on during breakfast, some rubber bands, electrical tape and scissors. <br />
<br />
"What are you up to, bud?" I called. <br />
<br />
"I'm putting up a sign to remind our neighbors to slow down and be careful," he replied. <br />
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<br />
I smiled while gathering up my things. Then, upon turning the handle to the patio door, I realized we were locked out.
Again.<br />
<br />
And that, my friends, is why we have a lock box now. <br />
<br />
Except our code didn't work. So I tried every combination I could think of, on the possibility that N may have changed it and forgotten to tell me. Nothing worked.<br />
<br />
I weighed my options. I could keep trying to figure out the combination and risk Little Lady waking up in the meantime, with me being out of earshot, or I could swallow my pride and walk over to the neighbors' and ask to use their phone to call my husband. <br />
<br />
Because not only did I look like a raccoon because I had not yet taken off the make up residue that always appears in the morning, no matter how well I wash my face at night, but I was wearing these:<br />
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Yep. My husband's men's size 12 flip flops were oh-so-gracefully adorning my size 5 feet. I mean, I had thought I would only be outside for <i>maybe</i> two minutes! <br />
<br />
Never have I been more thankful that I had gotten showered and dressed before breakfast!<br />
<br />
I decided that our neighbors were kind enough and had a good enough sense of humor that they would laugh with me about this. After all, they had raised their own kids and they have a good number of grandsons to their name. So after telling B to stay put and not leave the backyard under any circumstances, I ran over to the neighbors'. And of course they were gracious, even though I had interrupted their breakfast and had shown up looking all sorts of ridiculous. <br />
<br />
N agreed to come home right away to let us in, so I went back to our house to wait. And I decided to try the code one more time. <br />
<br />
Click!<br />
<br />
Wha---?! <br />
<br />
Friends, sometimes, I'm pretty sure some things happen just so we will remember to take a chill pill. <br />
<br />
I ran inside to call N and let him know he didn't have to come home after all. <br />
<br />
And I took a deep breath and smiled at my worried little boy. Because he hadn't meant to lock us out. In fact, he was doing the right thing, because we are forever reminding him to close the door because once it gets warm enough to hang out in the back yard for extended periods of time, the mosquitoes appear in droves. <br />
<br />
Plus, this is the same little boy who, when he was still sick, was so concerned that I had poked my finger while making dinner, that he ran to bring me one of his own special band aids, bought with his own earned money, without a second thought. The same little boy who plays quietly and creatively on his own while his sister takes her morning nap, who, when crayons get broken, takes the initiative to repair them with tape so he doesn't interrupt me. <br />
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I will end this with pictures of those pretty blooms and B's thoughtful sign. I never took notice of irises until we discovered that we had an abundance of them in our backyard the first spring after we moved in here. And now, although I probably wouldn't ever choose them to purchase, I think they are a lovely addition to our flora. And B's sign reminds me that it is good to look out for one another.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-37919721020165733932015-03-25T15:49:00.001-05:002015-03-25T16:24:21.618-05:00Old Concept, New LessonOnce in a while, I feel like I'm presented with a pop quiz in life, one that challenges me to review past lessons learned, to see if I remember the right strategies to use and how to use them to get the A on the test.<br />
<br />
One of the unexpected -- and greatest -- challenges I've had since becoming a parent is the absence of involved grandparents in our children's lives. I kid you not, I have cried many tears over feeling like they're getting the short end of the stick, that they're missing out. Having grown up on the other side of the world from my grandparents, I didn't have that either. But because we lived in an area where none of my friends had grandparents nearby, I didn't know what I was missing.<br />
<br />
When we had Little B, I began realizing that we really were missing something. We didn't have grandparents and other family members swooping into town to take care of him and us. We didn't have anyone fighting over who was going to hold him next and thinking every little bit of him was perfect. We didn't have anyone taking a million photos of him and us. <br />
<br />
But we did have church family, and that really was my saving grace and balm to my heart.<br />
<br />
Other than leaving behind the mountains and four gorgeous seasons, that was the one thing that I was so sad to leave behind when we moved to Texas.<br />
<br />
When I got pregnant with Little Lady, I was so overwhelmed. It had been hard enough feeling like we were sort of on our own with B, but now, with a new baby on the way, I wondered who was going to celebrate with us? Who was going to adore our kids when we were exasperated? Who would spoil them? My own mother (who is truly wonderful and admirable in many, many ways) had flat out told me that she wasn't going to make the trip to be here for us when I had the baby. <br />
<br />
And as much as I've been grateful for the sweet friends who planned baby showers, told me all about how wonderful it was to have girls, and brought us meals, part of my heart broke at the thought of my little girl growing up without grandparents. Because as perceptive as B is, I know that just by being a girl, A will notice. She will notice that when other kids talk about their grandparents taking them places, treating them to things "just because," going on holidays together, being present for birthdays and Christmases, she will notice that we don't have that. <br />
<br />
I have strategically avoided pages, websites, and blogs -- yes, even from friends who I love dearly -- because I know that right now, seeing those things isn't good for my heart. It takes me places that aren't healthy. I just smile and keep my mouth shut when acquaintances feel they have the right to indirectly express opinions about how many gifts my kids get at celebrations or how much I get at consignment sales, saying self-righteously, "Oh, we don't get the kids anything. The grandparents send so much STUFF!"<br />
<br />
These are things I felt I couldn't tell anyone. I cried silent tears into
my pillow many nights, because I didn't want to burden my sweet husband
with it, because I didn't want him to feel any responsibility for my
emotions. And I didn't want to share with friends because I didn't want them to feel like they couldn't talk about their wonderful parents and how they doted on their kids. <br />
<br />
But today, FB was a minefield of post after post of grandparents with their grandchildren. Older friends with their grandkids, friends' parents with their little ones, couples going on trips because Grandma and Grandpa were more than happy to spoil the babies for a few days. And the memes! One right after another, things like this popped up in my newsfeed. <br />
<br />
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And this.<br />
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<br />
It felt a little like a cruel joke.<br />
<br />
But then I wondered. <br />
<br />
We can't be the ONLY ones in this place, right? We can't be the only ones who go months, and even years, without going on a date because money is tight and we don't have free babysitting. We can't be the only ones who look around on our kids' birthdays and feel like something (someone) is missing. We can't be the only ones who feel like we always have to be the brave ones to ask if we need help because no one is just offering to do it out of sheer familial love.<br />
<br />
For all of you out there who are in the same boat as we are ... Sometimes, I just need someone to validate my feelings and tell me it's okay to feel that way. So I just want to say, I get it. And it sucks.<br />
<br />
And for those of you who DO have parents and grandparents and in-laws up the wazoo who show up in droves when the babies are born and want to be at all the birthday parties and argue over why you're not going to be at their house for Christmas ... please know how blessed you are. Yes, families are messy and full of "junk."<br />
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But there is such a gift in the fact that they want to be present for your kids' lives, that they don't want to miss out on the hugs and kisses, the stories and the play, the giggles and the wrestling. And that should not be taken for granted.<br />
<br />
As for me, as I sit here, wrestling with that old concept of contentment in all circumstances, I'm repeating old lessons and trying hard to apply them to today's challenge. I'm reminding myself about gratitude. Because being thankful for what I have is a much better place to be than lamenting over what I don't ... even if it is something that feels so monumental. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-53258477794479991152015-03-23T07:34:00.000-05:002015-03-23T07:34:08.411-05:00To Remember for Little Lady<div style="text-align: center;">
“Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.” – Clementine Paddleford</div>
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<b>For My Daughter</b><br /><br />Never play the princess when you can<br />be the queen:<br />rule the kingdom, swing a scepter,<br />wear a crown of gold.<br /><br />Don’t dance in glass slippers,<br />crystal carving up your toes --<br />be a barefoot Amazon instead,<br />for those shoes will surely shatter on your feet.<br /><br />Never wear only pink<br />when you can strut in crimson red,<br />sweat in heather grey, and<br />shimmer in sky blue,<br />claim the golden sun upon your hair.<br /><br />Colors are for everyone,<br />boys and girls, men and women --<br />be a verdant garden, the landscape of Versailles,<br />not a pale primrose blindly pushed aside.<br /><br />Chase green dragons and one-eyed zombies,<br />fierce and fiery toothy monsters,<br />not merely lazy butterflies,<br />sweet and slow on summer days.<br /><br />For you can tame the most brutish beasts<br />with your wily wits and charm,<br />and lizard scales feel just as smooth<br />as gossamer insect wings.<br /><br />Tramp muddy through the house in<br />a purple tutu and cowboy boots.<br />Have a tea party in your overalls.<br />Build a fort of birch branches,<br />a zoo of Legos, a rocketship of<br />Queen Anne chairs and coverlets,<br />first stop on the moon.<br /><br />Dream of dinosaurs and baby dolls,<br />bold brontosaurus and bookish Belle,<br />not Barbie on the runway or<br />Disney damsels in distress --<br />you are much too strong to play<br />the simpering waif.<br /><br />Don a baseball cap, dance with Daddy,<br />paint your toenails, climb a cottonwood.<br />Learn to speak with both your mind and heart.<br />For the ground beneath will hold you, dear --<br />know that you are free.<br /><br />And never grow a wishbone, daughter,<br />where your backbone ought to be. <br /><br />~ Sarah McManeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-68237532842424594172015-02-27T22:36:00.003-06:002015-02-27T23:12:10.659-06:00Mama Ain't No Svelte 20-SomethingI just have to start off this post by begging you to please not EVER use "ain't" in real conversation with me. It would hurt my grammar-loving heart.<br />
<br />
Okay, that said, earlier today, I posted on my FB:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXqViZFziTzQlL6iSiCuircCIZsuUOmFsa0yQV3KbrgbcWBsCMFtHHMzHLUMhLtq_TvOkaxXEDnS44Voxsjgr_CPip1v7arrBjFjcZdE70aJ-RkYNyp8j9ASzJV6CT-tyjNSB/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-02-27+at+10.11.07+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXqViZFziTzQlL6iSiCuircCIZsuUOmFsa0yQV3KbrgbcWBsCMFtHHMzHLUMhLtq_TvOkaxXEDnS44Voxsjgr_CPip1v7arrBjFjcZdE70aJ-RkYNyp8j9ASzJV6CT-tyjNSB/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-02-27+at+10.11.07+PM.png" height="111" width="400" /></a></div>
By dinnertime tonight, I had numerous comments on there, most of which expressed indignation.<br />
<br />
The thing is, I thought the entire situation was just so awkward that it was really funny. I mean, I'm fairly certain that her intentions were good and that she meant nothing malicious by what she said. Nonetheless, it was all rather weird and surreal. The friend I had been talking to said that in the moment, she was thinking, "I can't believe this is happening!" The day it happened, I told my husband about it, and we both genuinely laughed. I'm still chuckling about it. And that's why I shared it.<br />
<br />
Maybe I just have a weird sense of humor?<br />
<br />
But I found it fascinating that so many friends (mostly women) responded, and it got me thinking about social mores and culturally accepted norms.<br />
<br />
The thing is, as much as it is commonly expected that you don't talk about people's weight, it is just as commonly expected that losing the weight you gain during pregnancy is a goal for all women. <br />
<br />
But why is that?<br />
<br />
Today, when I was chatting with our pediatrician about the kids, and B's rambunctious little boy-ness in particular, he pointed out that we live in such an artificial society, where we ride in cars everywhere, stay indoors much of the time, and don't really do much physical labor. We try to make up for that by going to gyms to "work out," but he said that really, if we lived in a more natural environment, a four-year-old little boy would be outside chasing rabbits and running through fields much of the day.<br />
<br />
Relating to my awkward situation: I initially wondered if we all lived in a world where physical labor was just a part of our daily lives, if "losing the baby weight" wouldn't even be on our radar because it would just naturally come off. But then I wondered, would losing the baby weight even be a consideration in a world where manual labor is the norm and you don't have expectations to keep looking like you're in your early 20s for the rest of your life?<br />
<br />
My body HAS changed in the past decade. Things are ... squishier. Parts aren't where they used to be.<br />
<br />
But I'm really okay with that, for the most part. Because the thing is, this body has given birth to two beautiful babies, and that's exactly what it looks like. No, I can't run an easy five miles on a daily basis anymore. No, I cannot do push ups to save my life. And crunches? I don't think I could find my abs.<br />
<br />
This body is the body of a 30-something mother. <br />
<br />
I said "for the most part" because I hear that voice sometimes, too. The voice that says, "When are you going to lose that baby weight?" But you know what? My life right now is busy and rich, and honestly, spending hours at the gym to "lose that baby weight" really isn't high on my list of priorities. <br />
<br />
See, I think we too often fall into the mindset that unless we're all slim and svelte, we're "obese," but that's just not true. The opposite of "thin" might be "fat," just like we all learned as preschoolers, but the fact is, there is quite a bit of middle ground there, into which most of us fall. Yes, I could benefit from dropping a few pounds, but my desire for that is because I know my body would be healthier that way, NOT because I want to "lose the baby weight." I want my body to be stronger, not necessarily skinnier. Because a stronger body is one that can serve God, my family, and this world better. A skinny body is just that. Skinny. <br />
<br />
I know this may seem like "potay-toes" and "potah-toes" to some, but honestly, I feel like our culture sends such contradictory messages to women. Healthy does not mean thin, and while I think we all know that cerebrally, I don't think we embrace that fully. Because if we did, there wouldn't be expectations that post-baby bodies will someday return to pre-baby bodies, would there? Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-10381866636145650402015-02-03T17:18:00.001-06:002015-02-03T17:18:19.001-06:00Growth Simulation<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNePIZ6do4NzjvvfRzrM-6I80CBig5a_SEazt4U4gBZnuQ161nnbQG7EflLq0GjRdeiE-aKyWWEYk6AtrWxHMbzquK69x7ZpRw2RleYvgypQKlLP75b_YK7qY4lDtTDwC4pV6Q/s1600/IMG_6283.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNePIZ6do4NzjvvfRzrM-6I80CBig5a_SEazt4U4gBZnuQ161nnbQG7EflLq0GjRdeiE-aKyWWEYk6AtrWxHMbzquK69x7ZpRw2RleYvgypQKlLP75b_YK7qY4lDtTDwC4pV6Q/s1600/IMG_6283.jpg" height="297" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My goofy boy brings so much laughter to our home.</td></tr>
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FYI: I posted the first portion of this story to FB earlier today, for those to whom this sounds familiar.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCtaeBlJbFyiQP65JdnikrzhpCGUO9DwvFo64Ouw56aAK0FazqKnmVGMfTrRFUvNMCK1Hb8Tj8nniDjYKvE_VmEXZkCQC0eqdsrjxtlWOuW74qoPHz54irBMktc1bDkcJmrr87/s1600/IMG_8128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCtaeBlJbFyiQP65JdnikrzhpCGUO9DwvFo64Ouw56aAK0FazqKnmVGMfTrRFUvNMCK1Hb8Tj8nniDjYKvE_VmEXZkCQC0eqdsrjxtlWOuW74qoPHz54irBMktc1bDkcJmrr87/s1600/IMG_8128.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><br />
Every Sunday, when we pick up our little man from KidZone at church, he has a large white sticker on his back with two questions that we can ask him regarding that day's lesson. <br />
<br />
<br />
This past weekend, I asked, "How are some ways you can grow in God, B?"<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6KOQc-cZmzNQEKEff88Oxx_UbBstlYSSKAQ0Oy6Gu59ep_ZOkH4B2N8RDjeK16o85c_wPq-WKuQQURoRZ62FNo8apN0D4wR7LpswKcB5OcH0XpbqrpIqe7qscP6EzNsBSJoj/s1600/IMG_8136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6KOQc-cZmzNQEKEff88Oxx_UbBstlYSSKAQ0Oy6Gu59ep_ZOkH4B2N8RDjeK16o85c_wPq-WKuQQURoRZ62FNo8apN0D4wR7LpswKcB5OcH0XpbqrpIqe7qscP6EzNsBSJoj/s1600/IMG_8136.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a>He gave the generic answers you'd expect.<br />
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"Obey Daddy and Mommy."<br />
<br />
"Pray."<br />
<br />
"Don't be rude."<br />
<br />
"Be kind to everybody." <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9EQfjX3O2QllIIBPpDQndAsVmWSH6Luv0u9BBru1NCsLvPboez-u2KprDxvKIu7uDA8C6mzeqC95jWYG_hwk1bbx83ilyoC4EeXiU1NbjpTCupYGA4Lv4xMfxEZlR1IysZEW/s1600/IMG_8148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9EQfjX3O2QllIIBPpDQndAsVmWSH6Luv0u9BBru1NCsLvPboez-u2KprDxvKIu7uDA8C6mzeqC95jWYG_hwk1bbx83ilyoC4EeXiU1NbjpTCupYGA4Lv4xMfxEZlR1IysZEW/s1600/IMG_8148.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><br />
When I prompted him for more answers, he thought for a moment and then replied, "A simulator. A growing simulator."<br />
<br />
<br />
This past weekend, we learned that a family from our life group would be putting down their beloved dog of almost 16 years on Monday. As we prayed for them, B said he wanted Jesus to help their hearts not be so owie anymore.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_JUaPCYAUIECI4XtjNIS7mo24hbL7C69A9YMcyJeYTTptiHHhyphenhyphend8AHxUpBmsw36MnehbwLaAjEAKjh9B4IySXl9S74z79VGtPgYleSQY77OHtgrOhGfm8A6FWLKbRX3Ja0pQ/s1600/IMG_8172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_JUaPCYAUIECI4XtjNIS7mo24hbL7C69A9YMcyJeYTTptiHHhyphenhyphend8AHxUpBmsw36MnehbwLaAjEAKjh9B4IySXl9S74z79VGtPgYleSQY77OHtgrOhGfm8A6FWLKbRX3Ja0pQ/s1600/IMG_8172.JPG" height="140" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just like Daddy</td></tr>
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<br />
Together with our other friends from our life group, we decided that we wanted our friends to return home from the vet to lots of comfort. A plan was set into motion, with everyone contributing some love.<br />
<br />
B did a wonderful job helping me make cookies for our friends, being oh-so-careful with the cookie cutter, but especially with the icing, because he didn't want the cookies to be "messed up" (you think he inherited any of my Type A personality?).<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-CHOpNXSzCBanaCyvR4wBVDsf39LvYaQHCrUxLVLd2YNZKtZBehSlCWDPN6rBhSdZScmv2edCqgc90iH4YA2kimH-UOqnAPB1cNcM5fHh1rxWQ7UgtXxOxWMHdVjxHj3iXuXT/s1600/IMG_8184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-CHOpNXSzCBanaCyvR4wBVDsf39LvYaQHCrUxLVLd2YNZKtZBehSlCWDPN6rBhSdZScmv2edCqgc90iH4YA2kimH-UOqnAPB1cNcM5fHh1rxWQ7UgtXxOxWMHdVjxHj3iXuXT/s1600/IMG_8184.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm a big, strong boy, Mama. I can do the rolling."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzi2_RaNLJFWZhWEgk9ufBgPa2JytjNfIvbq5dAZg3SPNcOWzb7XQ3dxMPS_XT2hQfk748keM444xz_GetkmesVCnRS3vRqFPA0ugdj0pCDhJinHtlcSntN68QzEUBxEKHtRab/s1600/IMG_8186.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzi2_RaNLJFWZhWEgk9ufBgPa2JytjNfIvbq5dAZg3SPNcOWzb7XQ3dxMPS_XT2hQfk748keM444xz_GetkmesVCnRS3vRqFPA0ugdj0pCDhJinHtlcSntN68QzEUBxEKHtRab/s1600/IMG_8186.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carefully drawing the long line for each letter "F" for Finnegan</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQhYc7hu3RLrg0XFLsrOABzOWHLJHqI-6A_v5NmkDgoKVRpjSfhHf56ikWzmxFDdce_uyejIDYlAnl4-zrGd9-jE4MiNtlI_fMJ5-bpWPnV3CvKjhQG_fhxdCeB5q0iCNobXeU/s1600/IMG_8188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQhYc7hu3RLrg0XFLsrOABzOWHLJHqI-6A_v5NmkDgoKVRpjSfhHf56ikWzmxFDdce_uyejIDYlAnl4-zrGd9-jE4MiNtlI_fMJ5-bpWPnV3CvKjhQG_fhxdCeB5q0iCNobXeU/s1600/IMG_8188.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
He sat at the dining room table, observing me putting together a framed memento of Finnegan as he worked on a sympathy card for our friends. <br />
<br />
"Why did he get old, Mommy?"<br />
"Those balloons will help them feel better." <br />
"How come the vet can't give him more shots to help him feel better?"<br />
"How do you draw a doggie, Mama? I drew the people, but I don't know how to draw a doggie very well." <br />"Why is he dying?"<br />
"Did Miss Melanie have Finney for a long time, Mommy? Was I born yet?"<br />
"I think the cookies will help them feel better. Cookies are yummy." <br />
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And through all the questions, even the tough ones, I was so grateful for this small glimpse into his still-compassionate heart, the reminder that he is still my sweet little boy, even in this stage when that sweetness is too often buried under preschool-aged angst and emotion. My mama heart needs these reminders, these moments of grace and beauty. It is so easy to get bogged down in the day to day challenges of mothering, of remembering that the struggles are small compared to the ultimate hope of the brave, strong, confident, secure, passionate, and godly man that I want my son to be.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christopher Robin is full of wisdom beyond his years.</td></tr>
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(I wish I had taken a photo of his card, you guys, because his "doggie" ended up having a few extra "legs" and it was just plain cuteness.)<br />
<br />
One of our friends was going to collect everything from all the families and make a drop off late yesterday afternoon, but B insisted that he wanted to deliver the cookies himself, even though I explained to him that we wouldn't be going inside. So after their naps, we loaded everything up into the car, including the balloons and doggie treats (for our friends' other dog) that another friend had dropped off.<br />
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It was sweet to see him carrying the gifts of love up to our friends' doorstep and placing them carefully in front of the door. We prayed that the gifts would bring comfort to their "owie hearts" as we drove out of their neighborhood.<br />
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And then he requested that we stop by the fire station on the way home so he could check out the trucks. <br />
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I love the resilience of children, the way they take things in stride, how they are able to be fully in the moment. <br />
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<br />
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When I picked him up from school today, he kissed his baby sister's head ever so gently and announced, "I had a great day today! School is so much fun!"<br />
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And I remembered that saying about mothers, that when we have babies, pieces of our hearts are forever walking around outside of our bodies.<br />
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And I was also reminded that he is so much more than his goofiness, uncontainable energy, his challenging moments, his uninhibited emotions. That the beautiful soul that we saw in him as a baby is still very much there. That, just like the rest of us, he is a work in progress, destined to be one of God's masterpieces. <br />
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No need for a simulator, my boy. You are growing up just fine (mostly by God's abundant grace)!<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-58454882708308061222015-01-30T15:48:00.000-06:002015-01-30T15:53:29.267-06:00A Playdate at the HeardWe have had a string of gorgeous days here in north Texas, but it sounds like that's coming to an end this weekend with some rain and a cold front.<br />
<br />
This morning, we had a playdate with some buddies at the <a href="http://www.heardmuseum.org/">Heard Museum</a>, which is just such a terrific place for kids to learn and burn off some energy. It's a natural science museum, but it's also a wildlife sanctuary, so there is lots of open space to roam, run, and play. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: The Dallas News</td></tr>
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They have a Pioneer Village featuring eight playhouse-sized buildings that are representative of homes and stores from the late 1800s. There are cabins, a miniature school house, and a grocery store. It's a fun place to play pretend! And B just loves climbing in and out of the windows.<br />
There's a plant garden that is really pretty in the warmer months, and there's a butterfly house that is very fun to walk through. There's a small "zoo" of sorts, lots of reptiles, and even little bitty owls. <br />
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And of course, they have their Dinosaur Live! exhibit up right now, and B just loves the giant animatronic T-Rex and the "spitting dinosaur" (not its official name, in case you were wondering).<br />
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It is always quite the exercise in phonetics for me whenever B asks, "What is this one's name?"<br />
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Little Lady stayed wide awake the entire time we were there and was barely keeping her eyes open for the short ride home. Both kids quickly settled down for their afternoon naps with no resistance.<br />
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I hope everyone has a terrific weekend! What do you have planned?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-33118465087402661272015-01-28T16:35:00.003-06:002015-01-28T17:35:20.288-06:00Soul Feeding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GnuKaFBGhdmZJoOeWu_OEmWidaBImOHVAteJxdqMp0UYpHWJr7CrauWnZ7BOlHuKAGjTsT03cJtUw1Q03kL7JXqiYYjxXr_7grUQZjGNhoimFbyPzAHAwBt6geiedW-K33U-/s1600/IMG_8009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GnuKaFBGhdmZJoOeWu_OEmWidaBImOHVAteJxdqMp0UYpHWJr7CrauWnZ7BOlHuKAGjTsT03cJtUw1Q03kL7JXqiYYjxXr_7grUQZjGNhoimFbyPzAHAwBt6geiedW-K33U-/s1600/IMG_8009.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsB2hHXi2BPa1R2_Rnu9TwiPphnM08EKvjLYEYC9ODc8zyPhFjdb1mOITmeGm1F4GZ77RY6bRhKMxeB6GtLWNyLNfxY8UskeczwUOP9bAVTmCwdrFz3jxADVTB69DC1P0Grc4/s1600/IMG_7977.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsB2hHXi2BPa1R2_Rnu9TwiPphnM08EKvjLYEYC9ODc8zyPhFjdb1mOITmeGm1F4GZ77RY6bRhKMxeB6GtLWNyLNfxY8UskeczwUOP9bAVTmCwdrFz3jxADVTB69DC1P0Grc4/s1600/IMG_7977.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>I was recently introduced to some of <a href="http://studiesinhope.com/2015/01/07/buying-flowers/">the best writing</a> I've read in a long time through <a href="http://www.handsfreemama.com/">one of my favorite bloggers</a>. Julia lost her husband several years ago in a freak accidental drowning while he was on tour in Switzerland. My heart just ached reading her beautifully crafted phrases on this particular post. I wiped the steadily flowing tears off my cheeks, from my chin. The thing is, I love flowers, too. But I have always felt that there isn't enough money to splurge on such a luxury. Not when there are bills to pay, tuitions to save for, and unstable/see through backyard fences to be replaced.</div>
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In fact, I'm embarrassed to admit that one of the most epic fights my husband and I ever had in our first year of marriage was about flowers. </div>
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(He staunchly brought home potted plants instead, which was more than this ungrateful wife deserved.)</div>
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I have never considered the soul-nourishing potential of fresh flowers.</div>
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I had a particularly challenging day yesterday.</div>
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It was Tuesday.</div>
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Tuesdays are difficult for me with a regularity that can't possibly be coincidental, and I'm convinced it is because N and I go to ReEngage on Tuesday nights. I believe there is a heightened degree of spiritual attack on our family on Tuesdays, and yesterday was no exception.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUWWxgqudE7n-yZ5ZEe9U9w-6nM16yetKvWPj5BbDbeE8N2I3bosVAPFrM3DgTVXGZS7qICXjKiWyowNG6zJtPeeJf2j9Si02fr-uzkzJWxY8ewjWJQEyO_iCviaKFstlQO4j0/s1600/IMG_7994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUWWxgqudE7n-yZ5ZEe9U9w-6nM16yetKvWPj5BbDbeE8N2I3bosVAPFrM3DgTVXGZS7qICXjKiWyowNG6zJtPeeJf2j9Si02fr-uzkzJWxY8ewjWJQEyO_iCviaKFstlQO4j0/s1600/IMG_7994.JPG" height="162" width="200" /></a> </div>
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There were a couple rays of sunshine in my day. I had the gift of a long conversation with a college
roommate, one of my sweetest and dearest of friends, as I sat in the
sunshine outside.</div>
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(Which I honestly felt a little guilty
about, because she lives in the tippy-top part of Maine, and they're
expecting a nor'easter and it seemed a little selfish to be soaking up
sunshine in my bare feet while she and her family were cooped up and
anticipating a blizzard.) </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFwDZvW2P8b3i78f4xhvFNNxuQbDnK89xuD5vwe1ECS60FWHArslFA5VgmLvFXoGqdDMMLQLuPFcUzEGOz9m8wX_fjIhUCwpPObDgvmkNL7rhmgldpQdPpwkWjESyB8RGukHP/s1600/IMG_8008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFwDZvW2P8b3i78f4xhvFNNxuQbDnK89xuD5vwe1ECS60FWHArslFA5VgmLvFXoGqdDMMLQLuPFcUzEGOz9m8wX_fjIhUCwpPObDgvmkNL7rhmgldpQdPpwkWjESyB8RGukHP/s1600/IMG_8008.jpg" height="320" width="227" /></a></div>
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And then a friend sent a quick text message to tell me she was praying for me. </div>
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So bolstering up my soul with the reminder of these two sweet friends, once our sitter arrived, we scooted off to ReEngage, albeit without having dinner, which is never good. By the time we were on our way home, my stomach was grumbly and my heart was cranky. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4tefacjA2yJMcubIATr-D_mX1AckJdsjA5Lo82aTIOYZcAqydconq1km2RFTyZjPViRcdhHM4yVwves6AVK6fW_u2g2v1LKOQKvfzRrGBPAB327nzH9n_JNfxxHfdWz6zHmM/s1600/IMG_8010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4tefacjA2yJMcubIATr-D_mX1AckJdsjA5Lo82aTIOYZcAqydconq1km2RFTyZjPViRcdhHM4yVwves6AVK6fW_u2g2v1LKOQKvfzRrGBPAB327nzH9n_JNfxxHfdWz6zHmM/s1600/IMG_8010.jpg" height="320" width="241" /></a>I expressed to my husband about how, when I was in grad school with lofty dreams of becoming an incredible teacher touching the lives of all my students, I had told myself that I would never allow any of them to "fly under the radar." Because it makes me so sad to think of kids just going through years of school unnoticed because they were neither academically exemplary nor desperately needing intervention. I told him that's how I felt now, that I was under everyone's radar in all the "communities" I am a part of, because I am neither exemplary nor am I in crisis. </div>
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I'm just there.</div>
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And N gently said, "Maybe this is just a season of humility. Maybe God is teaching you how most of the world lives. Maybe you only notice it because you HAVE been successful for most of your life and been applauded for it." </div>
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I know that my sense of worth ultimately needs to come from God, but as a person whose primary love language is Words of Affirmation, it is incredibly hurtful when I observe a pattern of regular encouragement and outreach happening ... and I am passed over.</div>
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Then we came home to a loaded dishwasher that had been started up for us. </div>
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I know it may seem pretty minor, but just the fact that a chore we have to do every day (usually when we're desperately ready for bed with at least five other things we still need to get done) had been graciously done for us meant so much to me. We thanked our sitter as she left. I closed the front door and turned around to realize that the giant pile of laundry that had embarrassingly covered every inch of our large couch (that I hadn't had time to hide away in our bedroom) was gone. In its place was a laundry hamper full of A's neatly folded clothes, and the rest of it had been put away.</div>
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You guys.</div>
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I can't even begin to describe what that meant to me except to say ... yes ... I cried.</div>
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You know how sometimes, you just need to know you plain ol' MATTER to SOMEbody? That someone notices and cares enough to reach out with some help? </div>
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I know full well that God put it on our beautiful sitter's heart to give me the gift of clean dishes and folded laundry, because I know He sees me. And He knew I needed reassurance yesterday that I mattered, but more than that, I needed the reminder that what I most need is Him.</div>
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Because this morning, despite a late night, I was able to wake up extra-early without any grumps to do my Bible reading. And in my recently acquired copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jesus-Calling-Enjoying-Peace-Presence-ebook/dp/B003IYI7I2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422481851&sr=8-1&keywords=jesus+calling">Jesus Calling</a> (free from our church library), I read this: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQ_gxG7y2P0ILeTXhsWeqTtpOYCRaKe0nPvSfjuWGQOxp9kVB-WddObRgA8WCW4a2TJYh_1ZmSq6i3pfKHdiB3KNht0ZTGv0YJJ0xxMw_oPYtJWqviQngoOCXk8uJrItYVVqI/s1600/IMG_8014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQ_gxG7y2P0ILeTXhsWeqTtpOYCRaKe0nPvSfjuWGQOxp9kVB-WddObRgA8WCW4a2TJYh_1ZmSq6i3pfKHdiB3KNht0ZTGv0YJJ0xxMw_oPYtJWqviQngoOCXk8uJrItYVVqI/s1600/IMG_8014.jpg" height="640" width="480" /> </a></div>
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To say that today has been a much better day would be a massive understatement. </div>
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And you know how, when you start counting your gifts, practicing eucharisteo, that you remember the other gifts, the ones you missed because circumstances clouded your ability to see? </div>
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Like the warmth of a sleeping child and baby kisses so enthusiastically and wetly given without restraint. Like tippy-toe dancing to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Steady-On-Point-Of-Grace/dp/B000028CNP">music from your childhood</a> and a pile of thank you cards in the mailbox, because thank you cards mean that someone has blessed you. And your baby looking out the front door much like your firstborn used to look out the front door and you have flashbacks of when, JUST YESTERDAY, he was that little. </div>
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And you sit in the sunshine, listening to the wooden wind chimes singing in the breeze, and remember that this counting blessings is also soul feeding.</div>
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Just like fresh flowers. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-63204641094495059722015-01-26T15:08:00.001-06:002015-01-26T15:08:18.050-06:00First Visit to the Dentist!This morning, after many prayers for "courage like a big, bold lion" for our little boy, I took the kids to their first dental appointments. The pediatric dentist we went to came highly recommended by a dear friend I trust, so even though the office a little bit of a drive from our house, N and I felt like it would be worth it to take the kids there a couple times a year. We both enjoy our trips to the dentist for the most part. N used to tease me whenever I went to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/R-Jamie-Green-Family-Dentistry/125162340978528">our dentist in NY</a>, because it would take me so long. Not because I had any issues with my teeth, but because I would get to chatting with the awesome hygienist there while she was cleaning my teeth and an hour would easily go by! I LOVED that dental office; it's actually one of the things I was most sad to leave behind when we moved. <br /><br />Anyway, we want visits to the dentist to be a positive experience for our kids, too.<br /><br />
I have to insert here that I feel a little shortchanged in my childhood medical experiences. I mean, we never got to go to special doctors. Heck, I don't even know if we had regular check ups other than when we made our summer trips every few years back to Korea! And I mean, check out this mural in the kids' examination room! And this isn't even including the giant Lightning McQueen in the corner! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cantrellfamilydentistry.com/">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
All the "prep" part of the visit was great. The forms even included a little section asking about the kids' favorite foods, animals, colors, etc. and the receptionist inquired about our bearded dragon based on that form. Both kids played happily in the children's waiting room until Dr. Sarah was ready to see us.<br />
<br />
Little Lady went first and did surprisingly well lying still while the dentist checked her two little bitty teeth and her gums. She's quite the wiggler now and isn't one to stay put for long periods of time, so I was glad that she complied so well. Big brother sat next to us, and I could sense that he was quite concerned, both for his baby sister [remember how he yelled at the nurses for "hurting my baby sister" when he came with us for one of her well-baby visits?] and for himself.<br />
<br />
When it came to be his turn, he just burst out crying.<br />
<br />
Dr. Sarah was great and finally, she convinced him to show her how he brushed his teeth at home, and in the process, she was able to get a decent look at all his teeth. She didn't talk down to him and I could tell that he was warming up to her. And I was pleasantly surprised to see that the toothbrush they had put in his bag was blue, his favorite color (I'm assuming that was intentional).<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgSdyXSK6L3kscEikpBm4n750RWeWFXe2O4hJPZw6VpILBZcu_njP9TTPAS57bLepZJNvm9TnSMANfF7W_GZOvhZJdieLncU1olHbM5JSEwVanXl0FvlJlkdXZavM2fzErMWP/s1600/IMG_7976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgSdyXSK6L3kscEikpBm4n750RWeWFXe2O4hJPZw6VpILBZcu_njP9TTPAS57bLepZJNvm9TnSMANfF7W_GZOvhZJdieLncU1olHbM5JSEwVanXl0FvlJlkdXZavM2fzErMWP/s1600/IMG_7976.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
All in all, for a first visit to the dentist, I would say this was fairly successful! <br />
<br />
We stopped to pick up a few groceries on the way home, and when we pulled into our driveway, B spotted our neighbor, Mr. David. He requested to go for a visit, so he ran next door while I put Little Lady down for her nap, brought in the groceries, and started dinner in the crock pot. I could hear him chattering away through the open kitchen window, and it made me thankful yet again for great neighbors. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiIUycQXBr__HSuzU2EeeVIyjyTY2yjInL-JUIliBAx3JorP33zVDDuQQqr6ciwCpqtdBWdrPiIAd_dkYH0oXAp7i92ylE_kUSp_bdEk3FckBwZkA-CGsWPz7kzjsPQuKky55p/s1600/IMG_7851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiIUycQXBr__HSuzU2EeeVIyjyTY2yjInL-JUIliBAx3JorP33zVDDuQQqr6ciwCpqtdBWdrPiIAd_dkYH0oXAp7i92ylE_kUSp_bdEk3FckBwZkA-CGsWPz7kzjsPQuKky55p/s1600/IMG_7851.jpg" height="320" width="249" /></a>He came running in soon enough, and after we all had lunch, I took the kids out to the backyard to play. The baby was content to be pushed in the swing while B and I played "hockey" with his plastic golf clubs, and once she was done, I let her explore in the grass while B "fast-roped" (if you haven't seen "<a href="http://www.arthurchristmas.com/">Arthur Christmas</a>," you should) up and down the little playhouse with a bit of rope I let him have. Little Lady crawled around, pulling up handfuls of grass and leaves, having the time of her life, and once we came back inside and I put B down for his nap, she stood at the back patio doors, just staring out into the great outdoors.<br />
<br />
I'd better be careful, or she's going to be asking to backpack the Appalachian Trail solo. Just kidding.<br />
<br />
Sort of. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-19283173761899919462015-01-15T22:16:00.001-06:002015-01-15T22:16:24.632-06:00Home from School Early <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLhBVgVD-t0elxVT-5kb0c6Hb1WonpAi-atN_cIGKZQWoJllooOCTKIe8ekv8ScggiJ1gghj4277r68j3lBimDdKKsIBq2V-jCVjul4OTz8foKr6bdsV1bGQZdncBLxx8OY06/s1600/IMG_7742.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLhBVgVD-t0elxVT-5kb0c6Hb1WonpAi-atN_cIGKZQWoJllooOCTKIe8ekv8ScggiJ1gghj4277r68j3lBimDdKKsIBq2V-jCVjul4OTz8foKr6bdsV1bGQZdncBLxx8OY06/s1600/IMG_7742.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>Little Lady was fast asleep for her morning nap and I had dozed off in the armchair while I was waiting for the next load of laundry to dry. I heard her stirring, and as usual, she was all smiles and "Hiiiiiii!" when I walked in.<br />
<br />
But there was All. The. Poop.<br /><br />Honestly, we had it so easy with Little Man. I can count on one hand the number of bad poop incidents we ever had with him. Little Lady has been so much more prone to tummy troubles in her short life.<br />
<br />
I'm hoping she'll grow out of it.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20VN6B17ARH1bVexadrbz5MWY8J7CfhDzH5p-TaTUW5M6eAQtxumP6XWi1n73F4E2i3r8aluuA5OKiuOixj5UqQIfBFxcrQT7a1kkXsIvLsnG9OdsKIHGGkP16FrLjzoQ1wGt/s1600/IMG_7747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20VN6B17ARH1bVexadrbz5MWY8J7CfhDzH5p-TaTUW5M6eAQtxumP6XWi1n73F4E2i3r8aluuA5OKiuOixj5UqQIfBFxcrQT7a1kkXsIvLsnG9OdsKIHGGkP16FrLjzoQ1wGt/s1600/IMG_7747.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
Anyway, with all the cleaning up involved, I somehow missed a phone call from B's preschool until I glanced at my phone forty minutes later and realized I had a voicemail message. The director said B had been sitting in a chair in the reading corner all day long and hadn't wanted to do anything all day, not even play. She said he went to music class with everyone else, but when they returned to the classroom, he sat right back down in that chair.<br />
<br />
He wasn't causing trouble; he was just very still and quiet. <br />
<br />
Which is SO not our little guy.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLYIJu7HhxVOsceTKOQwnWgLsCCAFqqbCLp9RNWewqZhXqfNqIkNkAc_cbjlf0T2pnx1RrINHAHjy52WO66pGJiF2dkzIUyuOlRUHgA8b-96LeBQG73hhm79tco6er5_qzkYT/s1600/IMG_7748.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLYIJu7HhxVOsceTKOQwnWgLsCCAFqqbCLp9RNWewqZhXqfNqIkNkAc_cbjlf0T2pnx1RrINHAHjy52WO66pGJiF2dkzIUyuOlRUHgA8b-96LeBQG73hhm79tco6er5_qzkYT/s1600/IMG_7748.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
They took his temperature, and although he didn't have a fever, they thought I would want to know what was going on.<br />
<br />
After calling back and talking to one of his teachers, I decided to go ahead and pick him up an hour early.<br />
<br />
When A and I walked into the classroom, he was smiling and chatting with his lunch table buddies. Ms. A said that as soon as he had heard that I was coming, his whole demeanor had changed and he had pepped right up.<br />
<br />
So we drove home, with me praying silently the entire way home for wisdom on how to connect with B's heart regarding whatever was wrong. As we were pulling into our driveway, I felt prompted to ask B if he wanted to go to the playground. <br /><br />Best decision of the day.<br />
<br />
He laughed and ran and although I hadn't known whether it was the right thing to do at the time, I'm so glad I went to pick him up early today.<br />
<br />
It gave us a precious, unexpected hour of playing together.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZe7M6U0hrlcPkiUurf5ZCgOWda5BoBbyz6dj-avOvhlI3ChI1nyo9HM6o3yLtc8mq25bOySNXIBWkU_sBQmAspHUVLC9ff8iWHZrb3EsCgwi8XVFHyzUJP7jtsn3mEjbLMg98/s1600/IMG_7765.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZe7M6U0hrlcPkiUurf5ZCgOWda5BoBbyz6dj-avOvhlI3ChI1nyo9HM6o3yLtc8mq25bOySNXIBWkU_sBQmAspHUVLC9ff8iWHZrb3EsCgwi8XVFHyzUJP7jtsn3mEjbLMg98/s1600/IMG_7765.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Digging through Brother's superheroes while he napped</td></tr>
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Sometimes, taking an hour out of the day to just play is the best hour of the day.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-72579753445270758282015-01-14T22:49:00.003-06:002015-01-14T22:49:30.423-06:00Life in PhotosI don't really have anything to write about tonight.<br />
<br />
And before those of you who actually know me keel over in shock, let me clarify and say that the things that are at the forefront of my mind aren't blog-appropriate. At least, not in their current state.<br />
<br />
So instead of writing, let me share a bit of what we've been up to over the past couple days in photos!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBzXOQIMfzOFiV1DhLoldCnrjIH8tXzh2TIQMz9FMUTjEThdkT_5cgpmigUbZgcYz-Ogfpqek4lL2qGu1exIl1uOnK1HzXKkXMdsZvahnT2y6ebjPUbj9CVwaxAimIGymkYWh/s1600/IMG_7712.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBzXOQIMfzOFiV1DhLoldCnrjIH8tXzh2TIQMz9FMUTjEThdkT_5cgpmigUbZgcYz-Ogfpqek4lL2qGu1exIl1uOnK1HzXKkXMdsZvahnT2y6ebjPUbj9CVwaxAimIGymkYWh/s1600/IMG_7712.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My whole family (except me) sleeps in this strange and uncomfortable looking position on a regular basis. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7Sz_tb6_3iFl7czNwYXcC8G6DTo47pO2pIChhrgWKQgXN6Knc1YoVRk704zkhqQBNqkzpJka_XWtFD8ymT9zWqblVvL-WmLJglLuVGeihQRilbE11GhutEa-oDki6vvpN-xY/s1600/IMG_7717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7Sz_tb6_3iFl7czNwYXcC8G6DTo47pO2pIChhrgWKQgXN6Knc1YoVRk704zkhqQBNqkzpJka_XWtFD8ymT9zWqblVvL-WmLJglLuVGeihQRilbE11GhutEa-oDki6vvpN-xY/s1600/IMG_7717.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All bundled up for a brisk walk with a friend. Except the hands. Little Miss wouldn't keep her mittens on.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1aq792f8VXSGMs5SErBgQugTAmuWXaQ0SJjiBvTdvjLjskLboAe_F2RCOFBgnY7BfqqaZ6zlNguI9hYxAgCTZ0ZWW3F9BkFmpZZNT7I3Uv0rBB2iYXZOMhqtiM_Fam8D31e2/s1600/IMG_7720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1aq792f8VXSGMs5SErBgQugTAmuWXaQ0SJjiBvTdvjLjskLboAe_F2RCOFBgnY7BfqqaZ6zlNguI9hYxAgCTZ0ZWW3F9BkFmpZZNT7I3Uv0rBB2iYXZOMhqtiM_Fam8D31e2/s1600/IMG_7720.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the way back home, I noticed this van, with a sign for French classes, tutoring, and conversation. It made me nostalgic for a time when I was fluent enough to talk about history and politics in French, as well as read actual French novels. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5tEqVEgHJiODaAW9s9WTl1Frzi-aD8Pm9M8kMj8HHgsnfiLlZM6BQCxGhj9fkJcVThh6nhVqDB9QxsQCFWEBzy5l3OwOY6VWxB878VyUFBOw6ikruAck4PYp4i2LJXZ_ge7R/s1600/IMG_7719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5tEqVEgHJiODaAW9s9WTl1Frzi-aD8Pm9M8kMj8HHgsnfiLlZM6BQCxGhj9fkJcVThh6nhVqDB9QxsQCFWEBzy5l3OwOY6VWxB878VyUFBOw6ikruAck4PYp4i2LJXZ_ge7R/s1600/IMG_7719.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Man likes to tinker around the house with his tools.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtbOYO-xMNI3LNsov2teak_VWz9mFAHLi06DtSFBI9t68M1WC8VIzfyumjVXAJjZwWX5UeAo4lfYBMT-oWOxhN1w66W3a72Y_JQxKGU8zD6XVYKUTcpmF4z6L8se9MLDche2RE/s1600/IMG_6152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtbOYO-xMNI3LNsov2teak_VWz9mFAHLi06DtSFBI9t68M1WC8VIzfyumjVXAJjZwWX5UeAo4lfYBMT-oWOxhN1w66W3a72Y_JQxKGU8zD6XVYKUTcpmF4z6L8se9MLDche2RE/s1600/IMG_6152.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He is also still a terrific helper. This was pizza night!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxb1JpFB7_NtAutnIDswxCbNkEhIZojXzrZqglAJ_N9m13vBwp7rWdGdQ_lL2jEAMrNxtMQe7VnoQv2R0sEJBrgUIQktcTzfImoWyag4Y6936_-U6QpWfqdkvp1W-beR-GlbyT/s1600/IMG_6157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxb1JpFB7_NtAutnIDswxCbNkEhIZojXzrZqglAJ_N9m13vBwp7rWdGdQ_lL2jEAMrNxtMQe7VnoQv2R0sEJBrgUIQktcTzfImoWyag4Y6936_-U6QpWfqdkvp1W-beR-GlbyT/s1600/IMG_6157.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Lady would like to help, too. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy9i5Y_f0hWPYIxUNjMMJQg7QJEQcaQtAFYXXZox_j7-6WPponXdLglEqZj3oHRvXZvihm532lRgY4qaqa9On1hyphenhyphenRJrVIxU2_Q7_ApFVWjUA-coGP60vinMjc-A0Ojj4aQ36RB/s1600/IMG_6158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy9i5Y_f0hWPYIxUNjMMJQg7QJEQcaQtAFYXXZox_j7-6WPponXdLglEqZj3oHRvXZvihm532lRgY4qaqa9On1hyphenhyphenRJrVIxU2_Q7_ApFVWjUA-coGP60vinMjc-A0Ojj4aQ36RB/s1600/IMG_6158.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doing some more "work" with his tools before bed</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-2qvDiC_1avd6cg0UzdWBqBkug3svXqIFhvM70dXRyzUMaGyK5-2gxwwlAA_SocG4sOl6q9snPl_96eO1DI_oodFefDGsQ584U4XxJ68J5Pp_wzu84KIOvtcOdYgf6kAsO2t/s1600/IMG_6159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-2qvDiC_1avd6cg0UzdWBqBkug3svXqIFhvM70dXRyzUMaGyK5-2gxwwlAA_SocG4sOl6q9snPl_96eO1DI_oodFefDGsQ584U4XxJ68J5Pp_wzu84KIOvtcOdYgf6kAsO2t/s1600/IMG_6159.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQclACHa93OFsrepC2WYUdHkhufr7TOnIvgdJLihhMZ5r_l1vLtNcPibZuUoJ6smZdQ3WrVIOgLKZYlT-t_dEKy1kwFtjIAE1954zMuoCNiuKK5Pl6htzqe82iT4rBqF99nB1/s1600/10361494_788973300024_2985693568765860366_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQclACHa93OFsrepC2WYUdHkhufr7TOnIvgdJLihhMZ5r_l1vLtNcPibZuUoJ6smZdQ3WrVIOgLKZYlT-t_dEKy1kwFtjIAE1954zMuoCNiuKK5Pl6htzqe82iT4rBqF99nB1/s1600/10361494_788973300024_2985693568765860366_n.jpg" height="380" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kids both slept in until 8:30 this morning, so I had time to shower, get dressed, put on make up for BSF AND make/have breakfast with my husband before he left for work! What a rare treat ("rare" = hasn't happened since I don't know when)!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ml0CBy42vOkCjRzSiiNXD1Jo1EXC7Cy-e4196IQXJWlM615i4FbOH5n3wS27Oiut_-yNpZHxbkG4dttrflhZyAuehXXusHJGkVGSAWznsq9etxR96q1NNTPlIGWdiBcqjEBC/s1600/IMG_7730.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ml0CBy42vOkCjRzSiiNXD1Jo1EXC7Cy-e4196IQXJWlM615i4FbOH5n3wS27Oiut_-yNpZHxbkG4dttrflhZyAuehXXusHJGkVGSAWznsq9etxR96q1NNTPlIGWdiBcqjEBC/s1600/IMG_7730.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't believe she still fits in the infant car seat! B was out of this thing by 7 months, I think!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzu5supOt4VFOIfYDSZuAt2vukfC9_79H4x7dtDn8yEqMskNuvXe_b7dl8b8ZmDsgUQyZsf9s3f8ioBGA-DbPoC6Vvbf0-Hm0JzxhHNRAH0vzv_jYIizmW9wjO9lJ5F5E_Jxz2/s1600/IMG_7732.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzu5supOt4VFOIfYDSZuAt2vukfC9_79H4x7dtDn8yEqMskNuvXe_b7dl8b8ZmDsgUQyZsf9s3f8ioBGA-DbPoC6Vvbf0-Hm0JzxhHNRAH0vzv_jYIizmW9wjO9lJ5F5E_Jxz2/s1600/IMG_7732.jpg" height="400" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A trip to the library after BSF: B likes to "write" things down on the scrap paper by the computers in the children's area.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rvIxBDInz2XfQGImhKc4fX0SumafptNXWYLrcqggITNdacD99asBS3NL2EwplWaphP1flUXkhy-S7PqOycNean8jz3nmgn7XqTimBuzaQ3BEG_qQ7OAiWipV6Oz4TbgXDx_v/s1600/IMG_7733.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rvIxBDInz2XfQGImhKc4fX0SumafptNXWYLrcqggITNdacD99asBS3NL2EwplWaphP1flUXkhy-S7PqOycNean8jz3nmgn7XqTimBuzaQ3BEG_qQ7OAiWipV6Oz4TbgXDx_v/s1600/IMG_7733.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSIq_V_gKF7-90OJdxkkT6pt1Iy1WyArrO_loML4xTsx6dTLARdUtqAXXMRXohbfVEv28zMvjw8SaXpzaNJrwlRVduT6D3dF59qRjcY6vLCiYxU9TF2MnWT2ojElFvvm79iDKK/s1600/IMG_6164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSIq_V_gKF7-90OJdxkkT6pt1Iy1WyArrO_loML4xTsx6dTLARdUtqAXXMRXohbfVEv28zMvjw8SaXpzaNJrwlRVduT6D3dF59qRjcY6vLCiYxU9TF2MnWT2ojElFvvm79iDKK/s1600/IMG_6164.JPG" height="400" width="311" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by B</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-39708623662508987892015-01-13T14:33:00.001-06:002015-01-13T14:35:53.836-06:00Pause.Ten to fifteen minutes had passed since I had tucked B in for his nap.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpXULV5T1tV1RzYZhTceghjO2cdWS8s4lyJquIXAtvhgRAIy9rw0U7MdrY6QE9XBmtzvhhODRTrAhai8uxpRvOVtdk6pagTUcwEOqcNtuXJ1D1zl3jguSmslwddzdYEDa219e/s1600/IMG_6784.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpXULV5T1tV1RzYZhTceghjO2cdWS8s4lyJquIXAtvhgRAIy9rw0U7MdrY6QE9XBmtzvhhODRTrAhai8uxpRvOVtdk6pagTUcwEOqcNtuXJ1D1zl3jguSmslwddzdYEDa219e/s1600/IMG_6784.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a>Long enough that he should have fallen asleep.<br />
<br />
Instead, from my comfortable seat in the living room where I had settled in with my tea and Bible study, I heard exuberant singing coming from his room. <br />
<br />
When I walked in to halt the spontaneous music fest (because his sister's sleeping in her room next to his), his head popped up from the pillow with a huge grin and he said, "I just LOVE singing, Mama." <br />
<br />
And because of <a href="http://www.handsfreemama.com/2015/01/12/the-3-second-pause-that-can-save-a-morning-spare-some-pain/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=the-3-second-pause-that-can-save-a-morning-spare-some-pain">what I had read this morning</a> from Rachel Stafford, I was able to respond with love instead of irritation. I did still remind him that his sister was napping and that he needed to be quiet and go to sleep, but I was also able to tell him that I loved his singing, and that I would love to hear more after he had taken a good nap. <br />
<br />
And as I picked up the stray toy airplane that Little Lady had left on the floor where she had been playing while I put away her brother's laundry earlier, I felt a little lump in my throat.<br />
<br />
He really won't be this little forever and the days and weeks are flying by.<br />
<br />
So I'm extra-thankful for this small interruption in my day, for reminding me to savor this. <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-91635591318682864732015-01-12T22:29:00.003-06:002015-01-12T23:08:29.497-06:00Mondays Are for HomeI don't know about you guys, but our weekends are always so busy and full of activity (even when it's just taking care of chores around the house) that when Monday rolls around, I like for us to just stay put if we can. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She wore that hat all morning long. We sang several repetitions of "Little Bunny Foo Foo" as a result.</td></tr>
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This morning, after breakfast, the littles played so nicely together while I started a load of laundry and did a couple other home-loving duties that needed my attention. The two of them happily traipsed around the house in their respective get-ups, roaming from room to room with toys.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPDTlSdczNtdfLK4NGwW8YGjjMY3YJ4VFvWa88ox0pXHmGj7Zfzuqh9_gZbq6lTAPX2Ttg5D21v6CHoC9_Vn9DuV2cEnq0rr76YoVKIHsSzM2V1LDjCPZuxGtU9rOxCuz4cJS/s1600/IMG_7699.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPDTlSdczNtdfLK4NGwW8YGjjMY3YJ4VFvWa88ox0pXHmGj7Zfzuqh9_gZbq6lTAPX2Ttg5D21v6CHoC9_Vn9DuV2cEnq0rr76YoVKIHsSzM2V1LDjCPZuxGtU9rOxCuz4cJS/s1600/IMG_7699.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had a fire fighter in our midst in the morning and Iron Man in the afternoon. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Lady likes to give hugs and kisses, even to the little plastic animals on the exersaucer.</td></tr>
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Because he had done so well with occupying his sister, I told Little Man that we could make play dough while the baby took her morning nap. A friend had shared a link to a glow-in-the-dark play dough recipe last week, and I thought it would be worth a try. B has always been a terrific helper, and we had fun concocting our batch of bright yellow play dough together.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkV9IEOuXzMHIl6b6Wzu5qVDAHHw2A-xNLFm5gG0RrQoR0z-4WrtfYWHvYYfIQx_bmJaDxUKQ9JLyhZxNpvhf377Q4sjd6KEV313b74eXiuMU7GE53yWReMMOFpDZk2h2GNpon/s1600/IMG_7656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkV9IEOuXzMHIl6b6Wzu5qVDAHHw2A-xNLFm5gG0RrQoR0z-4WrtfYWHvYYfIQx_bmJaDxUKQ9JLyhZxNpvhf377Q4sjd6KEV313b74eXiuMU7GE53yWReMMOFpDZk2h2GNpon/s1600/IMG_7656.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stirring up the dry ingredients with his own blue "whisker"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbC6fChQU9rtsQWLGYZzvBypeXjVUEHFNmIqYAUDHZynBzKECB_o9q-r23oQ6zRekqxHqGANHDvic59cyCS-8KrpeTiO2_CpOix1rEIHI6jd0pTUKFUf0ZEjzyB49I46fN_fXC/s1600/IMG_7657.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbC6fChQU9rtsQWLGYZzvBypeXjVUEHFNmIqYAUDHZynBzKECB_o9q-r23oQ6zRekqxHqGANHDvic59cyCS-8KrpeTiO2_CpOix1rEIHI6jd0pTUKFUf0ZEjzyB49I46fN_fXC/s1600/IMG_7657.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking a yogurt break to let the dough cool down</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kneading out the dough to make sure it's all even</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Awww! I have such a pretty little heart!" </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Play dough is such fun!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making bricks for a fort</td></tr>
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Did you see my Jams? I keep saying this with almost every new wrap I wear, but out of all the ones I've worn so far, <a href="http://hannahguillory.jamberrynails.net/product/news-paper-on-neutral#.VLScZydZ_KA">these probably represent me best</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVjT2I3hUy4XU0GD55-cz8i4ZqZ5l2FclLwi4isByIAlsH_2pZfpeOurZg08-S0H931zirigwO4TQ-h7-YZkid5BHA71TUg89G-SYTPj_rtU2RTb1ahLmzW0IUJgQfDJpRXURp/s1600/IMG_7653.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVjT2I3hUy4XU0GD55-cz8i4ZqZ5l2FclLwi4isByIAlsH_2pZfpeOurZg08-S0H931zirigwO4TQ-h7-YZkid5BHA71TUg89G-SYTPj_rtU2RTb1ahLmzW0IUJgQfDJpRXURp/s1600/IMG_7653.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can wear them, too! Get yours <a href="http://hannahguillory.jamberrynails.net/product/news-paper-on-neutral#.VLScZydZ_KA">HERE</a>!</td></tr>
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I just love words.<br />
<br />
And books.<br />
<br />
And writing.<br />
<br />
Anyway, back to the play dough. We don't own a proper black light, but we DO have an amazing bug zapper! And friends, the dough definitely glows!<br />
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The remainder of our day was equally low-key. We had falafel wraps for lunch, B took a terrific, long afternoon nap, and Little Lady entertained herself underneath the dining room table blowing raspberries while I sorted through our mail.<br />
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Monday nights are supposed to be beans and rice nights; last year, I heard someone say that they have a weekly family beans and rice night in order to remember how the majority of the world lives (if you stop to think about it, the life we get to live here in America is pretty unreal). But I forgot to get beans yesterday, so I made <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2011/10/sausage-potato-and-kale-soup/">Pioneer Woman's Spinach, Potato & Kale Soup</a> ('tis the season for soup!), her version of Olive Garden's Zuppa Toscana, which is at the complete opposite of the spectrum of beans and rice. It is scrumptious, albeit counterproductive to the goal of dropping some poundage. A friend mentioned that she uses bacon in hers (but compensates by using half-and-half instead of heavy cream). Have any of you tried this recipe? If you haven't, you must! It is a perfect soup for winter!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfNE_wFIRKlG_11V6sbsE5m74lewGBxq6nLKp1FEYInKCnRpa63aKlOMN4R_vb-fSXPYMB0JH3MqStLCHUFtSloBapoaIYUAFkyYtOAD91yCYxZWYbOGUQOiUHB9LFGvBvYiHC/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-01-12+at+9.58.35+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfNE_wFIRKlG_11V6sbsE5m74lewGBxq6nLKp1FEYInKCnRpa63aKlOMN4R_vb-fSXPYMB0JH3MqStLCHUFtSloBapoaIYUAFkyYtOAD91yCYxZWYbOGUQOiUHB9LFGvBvYiHC/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-01-12+at+9.58.35+PM.png" height="272" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2011/10/sausage-potato-and-kale-soup/">Source</a></td></tr>
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Beans and rice will have to happen another day.<br />
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Hope everyone's Monday was just as lovely!<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-88461603953494162832015-01-11T11:04:00.001-06:002015-01-11T11:35:13.885-06:00Grace to Cover Our Imperfect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>I still fall on my face sometimes</i><br />
<i>
And I can't colour inside the lines</i><br />
<i>
'Cause I'm perfectly incomplete</i><br />
<i>
I'm still working on my masterpiece</i><br />
<i>
And I, I wanna hang with the greats</i><br />
<i>
Got a way to go, but it's worth the wait</i><br />
<i>
No, you haven't seen the best of me</i><br />
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I'm still working on my masterpiece</i><br />
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As we were introduced to our new sermon series this morning, talking about starting afresh in this new year, about making goals and succeeding at sticking to them, the lines from the introductory song that stuck in my head were, "I'm perfectly incomplete; I'm still working on my masterpiece." We had had a challenging morning getting out the door, and I just sank into the comfort of those words. Because God gives us the space to be imperfect, doesn't He? And He offers us the grace to accept us wholly as we are right now, not just in our mere imperfection, but in our messed up, bedraggled, harried state, because He loves us incredibly, with a daddy's adoring love for his little ones.<br />
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Today, when I picked up my little boy from church, the teacher wouldn't let him out of his classroom. Instead, he held onto B until he (the teacher) had said, "B was a very bad boy today."<br />
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Now, anyone who knows us will tell you that we are not helicopter parents. We are not overly protective of our kids, and we do not believe that our kids are special snowflakes to be handled delicately by everybody who comes in contact with them. B receives consequences for his poor choices, because like every kid, he makes plenty of them.<br />
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But we also believe that the same God who loves us also loves our children, loves them more than even we do. And we remind B (and we will tell A when she's older) of that. We also remind him that, because Jesus loves him so much, he should show others about that love by blessing them and treating them kindly, as Jesus would.<br />
<br />
Because we know that the lessons they learn in these early, impressionable years are setting the foundation for who they will be and what they believe in their adulthood, about the world, about the people in it, and about themselves.<br />
<br />
N and I make a point to refrain from referring to children as "bad," whether they are our own or not. Kids have good days and bad days, days when it's easy to have self-control and days when it's just plain hard. I mean, so do we as adults, right? Except we have (or should have) a better ability to control our impulses.<br />
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It broke my heart to hear someone to whom I have to entrust my child every week, in his presence, call B a "bad boy." Because he only sees B ONE out of the 168 hours in every week. He doesn't see the hours when B is sweet or the ones when he's so funny he cracks us up or the ones when he says brilliant things that make us convinced he's a prodigy (because, you know, we are his parents).<br />
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Yes, today's one hour in church was particularly difficult for B. He made bad choices. But that doesn't make him a bad boy. It makes him a human one, one that is perfectly imperfect, one that is still working on his masterpiece.<br />
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Friends, if we can be offered the immense grace of God in our brokenness, can we, in turn, offer that same grace to the smallest ones in our midst?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkGvvwUTyBvrOzc-FKeJrC2mxw6kbvceLRroCgvsckgO2YIdDMcc-a3ifKtQ-h31uiVhlzQGKUntv4MNINXopLhiAbQN0qkFQMBAaSpNkNwELqbYS1Bjr_R4UozlRSfCqbNJA/s1600/IMG_7634.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkGvvwUTyBvrOzc-FKeJrC2mxw6kbvceLRroCgvsckgO2YIdDMcc-a3ifKtQ-h31uiVhlzQGKUntv4MNINXopLhiAbQN0qkFQMBAaSpNkNwELqbYS1Bjr_R4UozlRSfCqbNJA/s1600/IMG_7634.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a>Yes, kids can be loud. <br />
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Yes, they can have so. much. energy.<br />
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And yes, sometimes, they have awful days.<br />
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He has a way to go. But it's worth the wait. <br />
<br />
Just like the rest of us.<br />
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And God's grace covers ALL of that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>"My purpose in writing is to encourage you and assure you </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>that the grace of God is with you </b></div>
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<b><i>no matter what happens</i>." </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>1 Peter 5:12</b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37198543.post-60473288398006998652014-11-18T21:44:00.004-06:002014-11-18T21:44:48.399-06:00Words and Yarn and Jams and Babies, Oh, My!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqV8_lbMTtQINKuW0H9UYKx5IBYLQgdAWbRxgL_3aJuM6h5VwvoiWwxvMcqEDcFg_92qPTX2h-gcsFVef382in-EBxkiggaXJ-vGjYeCuDCr6GE1DWoL_rqQy1_AxeVNOEzsI/s1600/WeimerKitty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqV8_lbMTtQINKuW0H9UYKx5IBYLQgdAWbRxgL_3aJuM6h5VwvoiWwxvMcqEDcFg_92qPTX2h-gcsFVef382in-EBxkiggaXJ-vGjYeCuDCr6GE1DWoL_rqQy1_AxeVNOEzsI/s1600/WeimerKitty.jpg" height="363" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Credit: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cindyarthurphotography">Cindy Arthur Photography and Design</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
N's uncle is in town this week for a business trip, and he treated us to a "grown up dinner" last night while the babes were in my friend Michelle's sweet and capable hands. She is quite the baby whisperer, and we were so grateful to have someone we trust with whom we could leave the children while we were out.In the course of our dinnertime conversation, it came up that I haven't posted here since ... August.<br />
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</div>
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*shame*</div>
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<br /></div>
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So here's the thing. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Here in Texas,<a href="https://www.facebook.com/HannahPlaysHooky"><span style="color: black;"> </span>my Hooky business</a> goes nearly DEAD from May through September, when it will gradually pick up again. This year, though, I had requests for items in time for Halloween costumes, so my little fingers have been kept quite busy for the past couple months. And I even have a wait list now! </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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I also took this past spring and summer off from my volunteer editing job so I could focus on being a mama of two. That means that I am attempting to double-time it this fall with editing two units instead of one. </div>
<br />
I'm also working at our church in childcare several times a week. And finally, after hosting an incredible party, I joined <a href="http://hannahguillory.jamberrynails.net/">Jamberry as a consultant</a> a couple months ago! <br />
<br />
I am incredibly grateful for how the Lord has provided these opportunities for me to work and contribute financially to our family. However, needless to say, I've been a little busy.<br />
<br />
And terrible at blogging.<br />
<br />
The silver lining is that there are lots of cute things coming off my hook, as you can see!<br />
<br />
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<br />And I have pretty nails!<br />
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So there's a little catch up! And maybe I'll post again before next summer! Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11830398297390048913noreply@blogger.com0