Everyday Life

Misunderstood Disney

2008-02-09T20:07:00.000-06:00

Today, Calvin was listening to Opie's CD player, headphones and all. I listened and was amused to realize that he was listening to The Jungle Book soundtrack. What amused me? His version of the chorus...

Look for the ... bears in sesame, the simple bears in sesame

CAAAAAAL-VIIIIIIINNN!!!!!!!!!!!

2007-12-27T22:10:00.000-06:00

Today, the boys and I went to see Alvin & the Chipmunks. (Great flick, by the way.) It was a ton of fun, and we were utterly enjoying ourselves in the midst of the crowded theatre, sitting on the aisle about 3 rows from the top. It was a normal movie-going experience, until the 'Munks burst into their first big hip-hop type number.

Then the fun started.

Calvin decided he wanted to dance along, so he hops up and begins to boogie. Not the typical two-foot shuffle, but a full-out expressionistic dance number. The running man, the cabbage patch, the moon walk, the saturday night fever...he did them all. I was trying to get him to sit down, but I was laughing so hard the tears were running down my face. Then I noticed the people around us were laughing, too. As I glanced about, I realized that none of them were watching the movie; they were watching Calvin. And when the musical number ended with a big finish, so did he, striking a terrific pose with a winning smile.

The applause was instantaneous.

He bowed.

They laughed again. And as I grabbed him to put him back into the seat, I simply said, "thank you folks, we'll be here all week."

Perhaps I should call him "Alvin," and be done with it.

Kids + Cameras =?

2007-12-11T18:26:00.000-06:00

What happens when you leave a video-capable digital camera lying in an adultless room where a kid can find it? This...

At least Opie's socially conscious in his Oscar acceptance speech! My real question is...what sisters?

While I Was Sleeping

2007-09-11T23:34:00.000-05:00

As crazy as this will sound, I was asleep. Opie was still not sleeping through the night at 23 months old, and I didn't have to teach a class until after noon that day, so hubby had taken Opie to my grandmother's so that I could sleep in. My phone rang, and my girlfriend Cherl - without any preamble - said "turn on your tv." I clicked the remote and at first thought I was watching a movie. Then I began to see the crawl across the bottom of the screen as the announcer's words began to sink in. About that time, the second plane hit. I remember sitting indian-style in the middle of the bed with my quilt bundled around me, trying to process what was happening.

I quickly dressed and headed to the school where the campus was basically locked down. I was sent to the principal's office where I was tersely informed that under no circumstances was anything to be said to the students, who were already on campus when the attacks started. It was the parents' job to give their children information if they wanted them to have it, and to help avoid any problems, all radios and televisions were to be off in the classrooms that day. I walked to the library where my classroom was located, and I saw teachers going into the resource room, so I joined them. We all huddled around a tv in there and watched quietly as the reports came in about the Pentagon. That was when I truly began to feel some panic.

A close friend worked at the Pentagon, and I immediately began to try to call her, as well as my theatre friends in NYC. Of course, no-one could be reached. All the teachers spent the rest of that day going back and forth between classrooms and that one solitary television.

As my first class filed in, they were more subdued than normal eighth graders. For the life of me I couldn't think of how to conduct a normal class, but I was trying my best when one of boys said, "Mrs. M, when are they going to talk to us about the attacks?" I was at a total loss. Here I was a fairly new teacher desperately clinging to some sense of normalcy and not wanting to lose my job, but at the same time wanting to allow these kids a safe place to voice their feelings. Then my boss walked in. After privately apprising him of the question and asking his guidance, he gave me the okay to let the kids have an open forum for their conversation.

I don't think I've ever felt so utterly inadequate in all my life as I did during those 50 minutes. I prayed constantly for God's guidance and wisdom as we talked about our fear, our anger, and what it meant for America. We continued to talk about it for months.

I left school that day exhausted. As I reached my grandmother's house to pick up Opie, I laid my head on my steering wheel and finally began to weep. All I wanted was to hold my little boy, who would never know the kind of world I had known. I don't think I put him down again for the rest of the evening, until hubby finally took the little guy to his own bed after Opie and I both had fallen asleep.

Even now, reminders of the attacks anger me and sadden me and stir my patriotic feelings. My husband actually lost a distant cousin - an FDNY member. I was finally able to reach or get word of all my friends, but my heart hurt (and still does) for all those who lost a loved one, a friend, a co-worker or a neighbor. And as I look at my boys I realize that they will probably never understand the impact of September 11, 2001. My prayer is that their truly conscious lifetime will never experience that sort of time-stopping, world-altering event. Somehow, I don't think that's possible.

Spoken Wishes

2007-09-04T10:10:00.000-05:00

Last night I was in the middle of something when Calvin sticks his head around the corner. "Mommy, I have something for you." Being busy, I didn't even turn around. (I know...bad mommy)

"Hang on, bud," I said.

Then I heard him say, "Here go." I looked up, and there he was, holding out a silk rose that he had found in our storage room. "This is for you, Mommy. Make a wish."

My heart melted as I took the rose from my sweet little boy. I closed my eyes and said a quick thank you for moments like this. "Tell me what your wish was, Mommy."

I smiled at him. "But if I tell you, it won't come true."

"Yes, it will," he earnestly insisted. So I told him.

"I wished that you would always be as wonderful as you are right now," I said, bending down to kiss him.

He beamed. "See Mommy! Your wish came true!" And off he ran to bedevil his brother...after all, there's only so much wonderfulness a 4 year-old can handle.

Hiding it in her heart...

2007-08-12T22:29:00.000-05:00

I just love this!

Active Imagination vs. Passive Ingestion

2007-08-04T11:19:00.000-05:00

new blog

Here's a new blog on my other blog site, livejournal. Check it out, and let me know what you think....you don't have to be registered on LJ to leave comments.

"A Baptist and an Episcopal were sitting in church when..."

2007-06-16T01:19:00.000-05:00

I grew up (and still am) Baptist. As a minister's kid, I really didn't have occasion to visit my friend's churches growing up, especially not of other denominations. I had never even attended a Catholic service until I was married and was asked to sing at a friend's wedding. So my experience with communion "procedure" was pretty singular.

Then I went to work for an Episcopal school. I LOVED the weekly communion (ours is only about once a quarter), and the ritual of it. It also gave me one of my favorite "Baptist fish in the Episcopal pool" stories.

One year as we attended the Association for Episcopal Schools conference that is held each year, we all gathered in an old church for the beginning of the conference. As the lesser priests (not the bishop) walked out to start the opening mass, I took note that they were dressed in mandarin-collared, long tunics of royal blue and black in a strangely reminscent pattern. I looked at them for a moment, then exclaimed to the seasoned teacher (and Episcopalian) sitting next to me, "Cool! Star Trek priests!"

One of the older priests walked within earshot as I made my remark. He soberly looked at me for a second, and as he walked by he discreetly greeted me with the Vulcan hand gesture.

I began grinning from ear to ear. My co-worker simply shook her head and asked, "What are we going to do with you?"

"Just shake your head and be glad I'm not actually yours," I replied.

That was one cool priest. It made me glad he wasn't wearing the red shirt.

Generational Lapping

2007-06-13T00:24:00.000-05:00

It has happened. I knew this day would come: I just didn't think it would be this soon.

Tonight, I put on my seven-year-old's sandals to take out the trash - as they were the closest to the door - and they fit. *sigh*

He's SEVEN, and Opie's foot is as big as mine. We already share socks...depending on who has the most clean at the time. But socks are stretchy and inexact. Shoes, however, are pretty exact, and his say that his foot is exactly as big as mine.

*sigh* It goes too quickly, let me tell you. But the upshot is, I have a new line on sandals and sneakers...at least for another month or two.

Investment

2007-05-16T23:23:00.000-05:00

I haven't blogged in a while because frankly, I didn't have much to say. However, this week has brought me a great deal of thought- and emotion-provoking stuff.

I truly believe that God only gives us our children on an investment basis. They are His; we are simply here to tend to His principal, doing our best to ensure a good return. In my little world, this has been reinforced at great lengths this week.

It is the end of May, and for students all across the country that means the end of school is quickly approaching. For seniors, it is their last hurrah as they prepare for the flurry of caps and gowns and parties and beach trips before they head off to college and the rest of their lives.

For their parents, however, it is the end of a journey that began eighteen years ago. As their graduates drive away toward college, their parents realize that in many cases their child will never again really live at home. The apron strings are being cut, even as the heartstrings are tugged. A friend of ours wrote a wonderful editorial about his son, Charlie. As I read it, my eyes filled with tears, for I realized that in not too many years, my sons will take the same path away from our home and into their adult lives. It's easy to forget that in our day-to-day living as we trip over toys and read picture books and build block fortresses and play superheroes. But when I stop and think, I can see how quickly time is flying by, and I just want to reach out and press pause, if only for a few moments. I try to savor the little things, knowing that I'll miss them terribly when they're gone.

I have watched another set of parents say goodbye this week. These parents, however, aren't waving goodbye until Thankgiving as their child drives away. These parents are saying a final goodbye to their thirteen-year-old daughter, then stepping into the black car and driving away from a cemetary they hoped they would never visit. Caroline has fought cancer for nine of her thirteen years, and she fought bravely and with great heart. On Monday, her fight ended as her family stood beside her bed. It is terribly sad, yet there is a bigger story here. Her battle has been documented by her father, Hershel, at Caroline's Page on the CaringPages site. Through these updates, there is a thread of hope and faith and trust in God's perfect control that I have rarely seen elsewhere.

I first learned of Caroline while I was still teaching. For over four years, we have prayed for her here at our house. I never met her, but when you pray for someone regularly, they become close to your heart. (Perhaps that's why we are told to pray for our enemies...so they won't stay enemies for long.) As we've prayed for this family, I've been amazed at how unswervingly they have trusted that God is in control and ever-vigilant over his children. Even as the end grew near, they continued to fight and pray and hope for Caroline's recovery; however, they rested in the knowledge that Caroline's soul is safe in Christ, and that should the end come (as it did), their goodbye is only as final as their time on this earth. The Manleys know that their family will be reunited in Heaven one day. So although they won't see her at Thanksgiving, they know the time of reunion is guaranteed. Caroline's graduation came early.

I went into my boys' bedrooms Monday night after they were asleep, and I simply looked at them, knowing that there are parents out there who would give all they have for one more night to sit and watch their child sleep. I stroked their hair and tried to keep my tears from falling on them and waking them. I thanked God that thus far my children have been healthy, and I prayed for those parents whose children aren't. I prayed that when the time comes to see them off I will have the grace and strength to do it with dignity and faith, whether I'm seeing them off to college, to the military, to marriage or to the afterlife.

I simply want to be the best broker I possibly can in overseeing the most precious investments given to me, whether they be long-term or short. The terms aren't up to me...and I'm okay with that.

My car is woman, hear her roar...

2007-03-20T17:37:00.000-05:00

About five weeks ago my car stopped running. No warning, no sputtering, no lurching. I just went out, turned the key and it wouldn't start. Every day for about four days, I went out, turned the key...nothing. So after my husband tried to no avail, and my father had the same results, we finally towed it in to the dealership, at which time, the guy jumped in, turned the key to loosen the steering wheel and BANG....the stinking thing starts.

I was NOT happy, especially after the service department kept it for a week and could never get it to NOT start. They ran all their diagnostics, and nothing showed up. Finally, we took the car home.

Three days later, it happened again. This time I didn't wait four days, I just called my service manager, Mark. "You're kidding me," he replied, and we towed it in ourselves again. Another week, another frustrating and fruitless search, and I had my car again.

A week later it was take three. This time, however, the car wouldn't start for Mark. Yay! We have progress! They towed my car in, I went out of town, and they replaced my fuel pump for the second time in under a year. (Thank God for warranty.)

"We've got it licked," Mark pronounced last Tuesday.

"Cool," I said, driving away. Three days later....well, you get the picture.

Today my phone rings. "You're never gonna believe this," Mark says. Turns out it wasn't the fuel pump, it was the connector pins - the male connector pin to be exact - that was faulty and had to be replaced. They found it by chance when the tech did something by accident and noticed the anomaly.

"So what you're telling me," I said cheekily, "is that this entire time, the problem with my car has been MALE?"

It was silent for a moment, then Mark stammered, "Well, that's not quite how I would put it."

"That's okay," I replied. "I feel vindicated."

He laughed, and I get my car back...for at least a day or two. Or maybe three.

Variations on a Theme of June Bug Karma

2007-03-07T01:30:00.000-06:00

Recently I read my friend M's blog about June Bug Karma. It reminded me of my great-grandfather, Jesse Carrell McCroskey, after whom my second son is (partially) named.

As a child, I lived for the summers I spent with my grandparents in my mother's hometown. Summers there weren't as muggy and hot as they are in Texas...bonus number one. My grandparents lived on a farm where I could run and climb and play and explore and...bonus number two. I could hang out with my aunts and uncles, who were - in my mind - the ultimate in cool...bonus number three. But by far the biggest bonus I had in the early years of those summers was that I got to spend time with Grandpa McCroskey.

Grandma and Grandpa lived near my grandparents (their daughter and son-in-law), but they were actually in town. They had a corner lot on North Kellett Street, complete with a huge fenced-in back yard. Grandma spent most of her time in her flower gardens, and Grandpa puttered about in the shed with his tools, but my favorite place to spend the day with him was sitting on their front porch swing.

Grandpa was a master storyteller. He loved stories and poems and songs, and he could quote them all day long. I thought he was the smartest man in all the world. (As a child I sat at his funeral and learned that he had only gone to school through the eighth grade; after that, he worked to support his family. As a young adult I realized that his education level had nothing to do with his smarts.) Grandpa would tell me the stories of "Casey at Bat" and "Abdullah Bulbul-Amir" and "The Owl and The Pussycat". He would quietly lull me to sleep with the story of "Winken, Blinken and Nod". He would laugh and say, "Again?" when I asked him to recite The Song of Hiawatha for the seventh or eighth time in a row, but he always complied. I loved to sip lemonade and listen to Grandpa's soft voice tell about places I'd never seen and people I'd never met as I watched people go by on the sidewalk or out in the street. We lived out the epitome of lazy summer afternoons, at least on Saturdays and holidays. The other days, I would wait most impatiently for him to come home from work so our adventures could begin.

Grandpa worked for over fifty years in a gravel quarry. During the week he would leave early in the morning in his blue overalls and his boots, with his lunch pail and thermos under one arm and his hardhat under the other. He would return in the afternoons, dusty and dirty with fine grey-white powder all over him. The lunch pail and thermos would be empty, but I was looking for something else. You see, the real treat came when he returned with an extra container. It was usually a Folgers coffee can, or something like it, and it always held some sort of "treasure" for me: a small squirrel left behind by its mother, a young bird with no access to a nest , a small box turtle or a large gulping green frog. I never knew what was coming in the can; I just knew it was going to be special. We would tend to it together, feed it, keep it warm and eventually we would either release it or bury it, depending on whether it "expired" or not. It filled our late afternoons with fun and joy.

On the days that there was no container, he would take Junebugs and do something that I've never heard of anywhere else. Now these are not your ordinary little, brown variety Junebugs like we Texans are used to seeing. They were black with irridescent wings and long, thick legs, their bodies the size of dimes. These were sturdy bugs. Grandpa would capture one as I danced around him, gaily laughing, then he would gently tie one end of a long, thin piece of twine around one of its back legs. I would tremble in excited revulsion as he tied the other end of the twine around one of my fingers and tell me, "Now Gina, go walk that Junebug!" I would spin in a circle until I was dizzy as that bug flew around, trying to get away from me. Sometimes it flew in a nice, even circular pattern: other times, it would dive bomb me, causing me to shriek and laugh as I tried to get away from it. After I grew tired of walking the bug, Grandpa would gently untie both of us, examine the bug for a moment, then let it go. He explained that it was okay that we played with the bug, but that once we were done we should be kind enough to let it go back to its family for supper, just like we did. So we would go inside, and at my grandmother's stern insistence, we would hurriedly wash up and make our way to the supper table.

After supper, something magical happened: the fireflies appeared. As daylight made its way into dusk, the first brave soul would peek out, and within moments the symphony of lights began. Grandpa would disappear to his shed, only to reappear with a glass jar in his hand. He knew the drill - he would sit on the porch, jar in hand, waiting for me as I flitted about, much like the fireflies themselves, capturing and delivering up my treasures. It didn't matter if we were in the front yard, facing the the old, fading two-story house across the street where the two old, fading spinster sisters lived, or we were in the back yard with the flowers, and trees. The air was absolutely redolent with the sickly-sweet scent of fireflies; after half an hour of catching them, so were my hands. Grandpa would carry the jar inside and place it beside my bed so that I could have "Nature's night light" right there as I drifted off to sleep. And after I had floated away alongside Winken, Blinken and Nod, our way lit by thousands of soft, yellow flickers, he would take the jar outside and release the tiny bugs back into the air. When I sleepily asked him why one night, he thought for a moment, then just smiled and said, "So you can play catch with them tomorrow. Now go back to bed and I'll tell you another story." That offer was all it took.

Grandpa died weeks after my eleventh birthday. That summer I sat on the porch, and I watched the dancing lights, but for the first time, I didn't capture my fireflies in a jar. I realized that there was no-one to release them, and that they would die before morning. That seemed cruel and unfair to them and to me. Grandpa's lessons had been well-learned.

Over twenty years later, I sat in a chair in the back yard of my grandmother's house, holding a jar as my son chased and captured fireflies for the first time. After he had drifted off to sleep listening to my recitation of "Winken, Blinken and Nod", I took the jar outside and, turning the lid, watched the tiny insects fly away. My heart was light, and I realized that the magic had returned as I watched my own son like Grandpa watched me. I felt his smile and knew that he had taught me his own gentle kindness. The circle of life and love was now mine to pass on. So with tears on my cheeks, I gently set the jar on the back step for the next night, and went inside to search for a spool of thin twine.

Surely the Junebugs were still there, too.

AUGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

2007-03-02T17:03:00.000-06:00

There are times that I utterly HATE computers.

Today I had to electronically submit a grant for the volunteer fire department that Hubby works with. Recently, Hubby's boss sent me to a grant-writing seminar in Dallas to learn how to do this so that we can attempt to get some grants for the department. It was a great seminar, I learned a lot, and this was my first real chance to put my newfound knowledge to the test.

The company that offered the seminar offers a small equipment grant to its graduates. They give you the application packet at the end of the seminar, and you simply follow the instructions, write the grant, and submit it electronically by the deadline. No problem, right?

I wrote the grant. I wrote it well. I followed the instructions, I proofread it before I sent it, sent it off, and printed out a copy to put in my file. That's when I saw it...the one thing that is going to keep us from getting the grant.

I set my margins to the specified numbers before I ever began typing the narrative, saved them and finished the narrative. Then I had to recreate the cover sheet because my scanner wouldn't work. After recreating the cover page, I inserted the narrative, looked it over and sent it off. I did NOT, however, change the margins on the cover page document, and so when I inserted the narrative, the default margins took over. That's how it got sent, and once they receive it, I can't make changes to it.

Stupidity to the nth degree. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we won't be funded this time.

*sigh* I hate learning by experience. I'd much rather learn by someone else's experience. I'm aggravated, and I can only be aggravated at myself.

I need chocolate.

"On the whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

2007-02-09T12:49:00.000-06:00

There's a difference between saying you trust someone and placing your physical well-being in their hands. It's been my experience that we often tend to place more trust in a stranger with diplomas on his or her wall than we do in those we know and love.

My husband has been in the emergency medical field for more than ten years and a paramedic for seven of them. Ask anyone who has worked along side him and they will tell you that he is one of the best out there. He knows his job, he cares about people and he wants to help and alleviate all the suffering he possibly can. I call him a "gentle giant."

So when I looked in the mirror yesterday and noticed that my nose was red and swollen (as well as painful), I let him know. "I've got a zit at the end of the inside of my nose, and I look like W.C. Fields," I proclaimed over the phone.

He laughed. I didn't. " 'snot funny," I said. "It really hurts."

"I'll look at it in the morning when I get home," he said, but he was still laughing.

As the evening progressed, more than my nose began to hurt. It felt like I had an abcessed tooth or a bad sinus infection...my cheekbone hurt, my jaw hurt, my eye socket hurt. I put the boys to bed, and took some Tylenol, hoping to stave off the worst of it. No such luck. I've never had a pimple cause discomfort like this. And I truly did look like W.C. Fields...minus the hat and the cravat, of course.

So when hubby got in this morning, he took one look at it, and declared the need to help drain it. I knew what that meant...needles. I hate needles. I am the world's biggest baby when it comes to needles. A choice had to be made. Do I suck it up and trust my husband - the man I promised to love, honor and obey - to help me the way he helps countless other people every day? Or do I refuse him and in doing so, tacitly display a lack of faith in his abilities? As Pooh Bear would say...think, think, think.

So I took a (painful) deep breath, laid upside down on the couch and watched my beloved husband approach my face with a syringe. And as he did what needed to be done, he took the time to wipe the tears off my forehead (upside down, remember?) and tenderly kiss my chin to let me know that it hurt him to hurt me, and that it was going to be all right.

Still and all, I'd have rather been in Philadelphia.

Creativity with the Nativity

2006-12-22T13:13:00.000-06:00

This year we stumbled on something to use with our children called What God Wants for Christmas. It is a small boxed set consisting of a fold-out stable, a booklet with a poem about the Christmas story divided into seven parts, and a set of seven gift boxes. Each of the first six boxes contains a character central to the story that corresponds to order of the poem. The last box, however, is the box that shows you what God wants for Christmas - when it is opened, there is a mirror in the bottom of the box. God wants you for Christmas is the message of the story.

We have been using the set as a week-long lead-in to Christmas. The boys take turns opening the boxes each night. The second night we opened Mary (night one was Gabriel) and as she was placed in the stable, Opie and Calvin discussed the order of the story. It was a beautiful thing to listen in as my children discussed the Christ-child's birth.

Then Calvin instructed his brother and I to sit on the couch so the trains could tell stories. He had set his train tracks up in the living room floor earlier that day and had played trains all day long. Opie and I sat quietly on the couch as Calvin placed four trains at the intersection of the turntable where they could all look at each other. Then he proceeded to have his trains tell us stories. They were creative and wonderful, but my favorite went something like this:

Once there was an angel Grabiel who talked to a girl, Mary.
She was gonna have a baby, he said, and she said "WHAT?!"
Then the trains took her to the stable to wait until the next night.
The end!

The gospel according to Calvin. Thus sayeth Calvin the great, and all was well.

Opieism

2006-12-22T13:09:00.000-06:00

And to be fair...

this has to be my favorite Opieism of all time. He was five at the time.

At Sunday school the teacher told the kids they were going to learn John 3:16. Opie's hand shot up, and he quickly informed the teacher that he already knew John 3:16. Impressed, she asked him to recite it for the class. Dutifully, he began:

"For God so loved the world, he gave his cotton-pickin' son..."

That's my boy!

Calvinisms

2006-12-22T13:05:00.000-06:00

A few of my recent favorites....

tiger war - use: "mommy let's play tiger war!" as he tosses one end of his blanket to me. meaning: tug of war

magnadoodle - use: "mommy, I want a magnadoodle cookie!" meaning: snickerdoodles...his daddy's favorite cookie

And my personal fave is his take on the second verse of "We Wish You A Merry Christmas"

Now bring us some piggy pudding
Now bring us some piggy pudding
Now bring us some piggy pudding
And bring it right here
Good tidings we bring whatever they are
We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year!

A Second Chance to Love

2006-12-11T19:09:00.000-06:00

Today Calvin is four. I no longer have babies. It's a moment full of joy, tinged with sadness. Of course we aren't potty trained yet (that's a different post), so I'm not completely out of the entire baby phase. The child can build complex Lego toys, play computer games and program the VCR, but he won't potty train. *sigh*

You've probably read the post about Opie's birth and my feelings regarding it. It's interesting, because I had an entirely different set of feelings when Calvin was born.

I was concerned that I couldn't love another child as much as I loved Opie. I was so delighted by Opie - his charm, his intelligence and his joy - that I couldn't imagine another child being able to hold a candle to him. So here I was, pregnant again, knowing that I would love my new son, but wondering if he would spend his life feeling (justifiably) slighted. Silly me.

Calvin came out looking exactly like his brother and nothing like his brother at the same time. It was the strangest thing. Even now we have to look at dates on the first pictures we took in the hospital because they look SO much alike, but within 24 hours, he looked so totally different from his brother that I was almost convinced that they had brought me the wrong baby!

His personality was so different than Opie's that it caught me by surprise. Calvin is much more demanding than his brother...it's his way or his way. Proving otherwise is always a struggle and often simultaneously infuriating and amusing. He makes no bones about what he wants, and if you explain that we're doing it another way, he scrunches up his brow, balls up his fists, and proceeds with his attempts to convince you that his way is the only way. When he is unsuccessful, his face falls like an avalache, and the world is suddenly in disarray. We frequently have to work HARD to keep a straight face. We often fail miserably.

Calvin is determined. He will keep at something until he either gets it done or smashes it to bits. He's a tinkerer - he's forever taking things apart to use them differently or to figure out how they work. We probably have 10 flashlights around our house that have been dismantled by the little man. They become light sabers, swords, logs for trains, hooks to defeat Peter Pan, or whatever else is the necessary tool in his current imaginary world.

He has an imagination that doesn't quit. He tells stories and acts out plays, he sings his own background music, and he makes up his own songs. He creates new situations for his trains and plays all the parts himself as the trains act them out. I love to listen to him when he doesn't know I'm there. His creativity knows no bounds.

Calvin has energy in excess. He wakes up going at full speed, and he doesn't stop until he drops. I always had to read, rock and sing Opie to sleep. Not Calvin. I simply put Calvin in bed, read a story, say our prayers and kiss him good night, and within five minutes, he's usually out. But between waking and bedtime, he runs me ragged...into everything, going everywhere, curious about anything that he can get his hands on.

I am so thankful for the second opportunity to love a child. Calvin is a light on even the darkest of days, witty and wonderful. He is all boy, yet he loves to snuggle up and say "I love you, Momma." One minute he is Captain Hook and the next minute he is Obi Wan Kenobi. He loves to tease and to provoke, but he hates to be teased or provoked. He is a bundle of love and energy and excitement, and he is my son.

Tonight as we sat at Casa Ole' for his birthday dinner, he loudly informed the ENTIRE restaurant that it was his birthday and were they going to sing to him? The people around us snickered and smiled and a couple of them wished him a happy birthday, to which he responded, "you forgot to sing...". When the waitstaff finally brought his Dessert Ole' and sang "The Chimichanga Song" that they sing at birthdays, he gleefully stood on his chair and did the chicken dance with gusto. After they all walked away, he looked mournfully at us and said, "but they didn't sing happy birthday." He grinned as we quietly sang "happy birthday" to him. After all, it is his birthday...it should be just right.

Happy birthday, Baby.

A Strong Breed

2006-12-07T00:33:00.000-06:00

I come from strong female stock.

There are days when I think back on my family, and I am amazed at the resilience and the fortitude of these women. There are other days that I think, "you've come a long way, baby!"

My great-grandmother, Ava Young, married when she was 13. Her first son was born at 14, and within just a few years she had two more. She was young, but she was strong. Granny had enough, and she kicked my great-grandfather out. Soon, his younger brother, Ernest, moved in "to help out." (unh-huh) After a few short months, she kicked Ernest out, and my great-grandfather moved back in. Within eight months, she gave birth to her fourth son. Your guess is as good as ours. Eventually she divorced my great-grandfather (we think) and married Ernest. Ernest was the only man I ever knew in her life. One day when her youngest son was a teenager, she and Ernest went to town to get groceries: they came back with an infant daughter. That's how things were done around the Young house.

Granny lived in the Ozarks, and she was the closest thing to Mammy Yokum I've ever seen. She always wore housedresses, often with jeans and workboots under them, and she kept a kerchief on her head. She dipped snuff, and she could actually make a spitoon sing when she spit into it - you know, like in the cartoons - *spit* ka-CHING. She was arrested at least once for shooting at an IRS man who didn't heed the warning sign on the front gate of her property: "KEEP OUT! Visitors will be shot."

Granny took on the government when her boys were drafted to serve in World War II. She wrote letters incessantly to the bureaucracy, demanding the release of her sons. She never stopped until each of them were home safely.

She also ran a little bar in the hills of Missouri, called Mama Ava's. All the big ol' mountain boys would hang out there, but she demanded that they behave in an orderly fashion. If they chose not to, she personally threw them out. (Did I mention that she was about 4'9" and weighed 100 pounds soaking wet?) They didn't dare come back for 30 days, and she kept tabs. People generally didn't cross my Granny.

Granny eventually outlived all four of her sons and her husband, Ernest, as well as several of her grandchildren. She had Parkinson's Disease for as long as I knew her, and I was in my mid- to late twenties when she died.

Her oldest son, my grandfather, took a young sixteen year-old girl to be his wife. Frances was her name. She gave birth to her only daughter at seventeen, and by twenty-five, she had added three boys to the brood. Gramma raised her children in less than ideal circumstances, but she managed to make a home for them and love them. When they were older, she went back to school and got her nursing degree. She worked as an L.V.N. for many years before eventually retiring from Cox Medical Center.

I spent many, many summers with my grandparents in Missouri. Watching my children now, I am amazed that Gramma had the energy to keep up with me. I'm often exhausted by my boys antics. Then I remember that when she became a grandmother, she wasn't that much older than I am now.

My grandmother survived open-heart surgery in the early 1970's when survival wasn't as prevalent, and recovery was much more difficult. She not only survived, but she overcame and has led a remarkably good life since then.

She buried my grandfather, and a few years later married "Poppy," my step-grandfather. I was thirteen, and I sang at my grandmother's wedding. That was 22 years ago last week. Three days before her anniversary, my Gramma had a stroke. Poppy has sat beside her, kept her company, helped her (as she has helped him through medical difficulties) and brought her sweet, sappy cards to show her he loves her.

We visited with Gramma again this past weekend. My parents and I went back to check on her. She was weak, but she was trying to get better. Within a couple of days, she has improved greatly and has been moved to a rehab facility with an excellent prognosis for full recovery. She's fighting.

Her daughter, my mother, is an amazing example of quiet strength. My mother was raised in the same city all her life, until she married my father. That union began a journey that has led to many different locations, both from military moves and the ministry. They were stationed in Germany when she became pregnant, and at seven months, she flew home to have me. Daddy came home two weeks after I was born. They have lived all over the country, always away from her family, only getting to go "home" once - maybe twice - a year.

My mom is one of the strongest women I know. She has stood by my father in his ministry, as much a minister as he is, only without the title or the salary. She has packed and moved when we were called to a new place. She has made new friends despite her shy nature. She has reached out to new people in each new place, knowing what it feels like. She has endured middle of the night phone calls that take my father away to be with another family in their time of need. She has loved on people whom many would consider unloveable, and she has been a source of quiet support to many others. She is the epitome of a pastor's wife.

Many days I look at these ladies with a mixture of love, fascination and horror. I love their strengths. I recognize many of their weaknesses in myself. And I hope that I can continue the line of strength that has come from them.

Visiting family

2006-11-24T10:50:00.000-06:00

Last weekend my boys and I accompanied my parents to Springfield, Missouri to visit my grandmother, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends. My grandmother's birthday was last week and we hadn't been to see her since we came home from Hurricane Rita last year. It was time.

As we visited, Calvin was misbehaving, and after a couple of warnings, I took him by the arms, and began to speak sternly to him, conveying with my voice and my facial expression that I was displeased with his behavior. I had just begun to make my point, when my grandmother commented to my mother, "she looks just like her daddy when she does that." That was it. I couldn't keep a straight face. I began to laugh, Calvin began to laugh, and the moment was gone.

Grandma has always held that I look just like my dad. I do...minus the moustache, of course. In a college makeup class, we had to do a project that was a gender reversal. When it was done, I looked like my dad's little brother. It was disturbing on SO many levels!

The other moment that made me really sit up and think occurred when we all got together as a family. I am the oldest of the grandchildren. My cousin, Jason, is seven years younger than me. Despite the difference in ages, we have four boys between the two of us that are all stairstepped in age. We've always been fairly close, but having kids the same ages has given even more in common.

We all gathered at my aunt and uncle's house for lunch on Saturday, like we usually do when my crew is in town. As the boys and I came through the door, Jason was standing in the doorway to the living room. He grinned at me, and reached out to hug me. "Hey Squirt," he said. Without a thought, I hugged his neck and responded, "hey Brat." This has been our greeting for as long as I can remember. His father, my Uncle Joe, has called me "Squirt" since I was a little kid. I, in turn, called Jason "Brat." I wouldn't let Jason call me Squirt when he was shorter than me, but it didn't take long for him to pass me. Since then I've been Squirt and he's been Brat. I laughed after we greeted each other, and commented that we're going to be in our seventies one day, still greeting each other with pet names. Some family traditions never die.

A Darkened Star

2006-10-24T22:40:00.000-05:00

Today as I gazed at the star-filled sky of my life, I watched a bright star suddenly go dark.

Eleven or so years ago, I was browsing online, looking for information and sites about Highlander: The Series. Yes, I admit it, I'm a geek. I found the HTS message board, and began lurking, then responding, then throwing my own questions and ideas out into cyberspace. It was there on the board, that I discovered a group of women - just like me - who were fascinated by the character Methos and his incredibly long life. We split off into a separate group and began writing fanfiction there. In this group was a lovely lady named Teri. Teri was a "closet" writer, and she strongly encouraged me to join in the fun. So I did.

After about two years of emails and short stories, phone calls and plans, Teri and I and group of these ladies met face to face in New Orleans at the Crescent City Con, a science-fiction/fantasy convention. We hugged like long-lost sisters, and bonded as a group over that long weekend. It was a trip I'll never forget.

Eventually a smaller group of us split off again and - under Teri's guidance - formed a group called the Misfits' Home for Wayward Writers. In no time at all it was shortened to the Misfits, and we wrote voraciously on all different subjects. There were a bunch of us, but Teri was the "mother" to us all, dispensing advice, beta-reading our stories and joining in the banter that takes place when you get a bunch of women together, even online. Teri's imagination was fertile, and her stories were rich and textured. She loved to write, and she loved to write about the Misfits. We often took centerstage in each other's stories, but Teri seemed to have the gift of capturing each Misfit's essence as she wrote. It wasn't uncommon for me to read her short stories and think, "yep, that's exactly what I would do."

AJ and I had the pleasure of spending another weekend with Teri at her home in San Antonio a couple of years later. We had such a great time with her and her son, and the time together reaffirmed that our friendship was a real and long-lasting thing. As we left for home that weekend, Teri looked at me and said, "Every time you look at the stars, remember that we're under the same sky, and that makes us a little closer to each other." We hugged, and with tears in my eyes, AJ and I drove away.

It wasn't terribly long afterward that Teri picked up and moved to Virginia to get a fresh start. She moved closer to a clustered group of the Misfits, and they became a family. But no matter that several of us were scattered across the country, we were a part of the family as well.

We have celebrated with each other as we've had stories, poems, and novels published. Ironically, the most recent big publication we've had in our group was Teri and JM (her writing partner and close friend), for their novel With Nine You Get Vanyr, due out in print in February 2007. We've cheered as Teri married her beloved SJ. We've raised cyber-bubbly over each other as children were born, degrees were earned, promotions were granted and general happiness occurred. We've also comforted each other as jobs petered out, marriages ended, and family members passed away. I can't speak for all, but when something good happened to me, the Misfits were among the first to hear about it, and when the bad came along, I could count on their support and unswerving love.

Tonight, the Misfit's Home for Wayward Writers is lost. Our beloved housemother, our qnotku (that's "Queen Nag of the Known Universe" to you) has left us. She was felled by a heart that was so big in its love for others and for life that it couldn't stand it anymore. We are shocked, saddened and in a state of disbelief that our "heart" - the core and the glue of our motley crew - is gone. Our Known Universe will never be the same.

Teri will be deeply missed. She will be fondly remembered, and there will be much laughter in the remembrance. So to my fellow Misfits, I say raise your glass of cyber-bubbly, lift your wooden spoon of blue frosting and join me in a toast to our Teri. May the star that darkened in our sky tonight burn brightly in our memory until we meet her again.

Uncommon Courage

2006-10-24T21:45:00.000-05:00

It takes courage to be a mom. Not just a stay-at-home mom, but any kind of mom. There are battles that I fight every day - some with outside forces, some within my own home, and some within myself. Those battles require courage: to stay true to my decisions and my convictions rather than surrender to the status quo. I don't mean to suggest that I'm some hero of motherhood...far from it, in fact. But I am learning to recognize the commonality in some of the struggles I've faced. There are lots of moms who've been down these roads.

It took courage to face my instructors and college classmates when I learned that I was going to be a mother, knowing that they wouldn't all be supportive. Theatre is not a particularly "family-friendly" occupation. After announcing my good news, I watched a look of disgust and disappointment cross the face of a man I thought was a close friend. When I questioned his reaction, he informed me that he found it sad that I was going to waste my potential by trading in an acting career for motherhood. I was floored, but I stuck with my plan. Opie was born during my last year of college, and it took guts to bring that baby carrier into class (with permission, of course) so that I could maintain my GPA and graduate on schedule. I continued on after graduation and earned my master's degree in theatre while I worked. I kept chasing the dreams that others told me were now out of my reach.

I spent my first five years of motherhood as a working mother. I never thought I had another choice. It took courage to walk away from Opie the first time I left him with the sitter to go off to school and work. I imagine I called her at least 15 times that day to make sure he was okay - and she was my grandmother! Then a short few months down the road it took courage to drive away as he screamed "Mama! Mama! Mama!" The tears that rolled down his face were mirrored on my own - except that mine lasted much longer. It took courage to face the "well-meaning" comments and criticisms that people lobbed at me for leaving my small child. Each statement was an arrow to a heart that was already torn between wanting to use my education to teach and impact others and wanting to be with my son. Being told that he would not remember which woman was his mother because I wasn't there enough fed every fear I had about my son. And it continued even after Calvin was born.

Then - after much prayer and consideration - my husband and I made the decision for me to stop teaching and be a stay-at-home mom. It took courage to walk away from an income. It took courage to face friends, co-workers and acquaintances who had differing opinions on my decision. Some of the same people who had criticized me for leaving my children now found fault with my decision to be with them. I was stunned when a mother who was home with her child told me I would find myself dissatisfied with my choice and that I was letting my students down. What I recognized at that point was that it was not letting someone else's child down that frightened me; it was letting my own children down. Yet another mother questioned my ability to home school my son. I was capable enough to teach her child, but not my own? I just smiled (stiffly, I'm sure) and thanked her for her "concern."

It takes courage to be a stay-at-home mom. Every day I wake up and know that I am responsible for what my children learn that day. They are with me every single day. As a homeschooler, that responsibility increases tenfold. Not only am I responsible for their social, moral and religious development, but I am responsible for their educational development. It has been the hardest, most frustrating and most rewarding adventure upon which I have ever embarked. Each morning brings new opportunities to teach and to learn, and what I do with those opportunities is totally my choice. I wish I could say that I always make good ones, but sometimes I just plain blow it, and my boys are there to be the star witnesses to all of it.

I've been in social settings where someone has asked me "and what do you do?" It takes guts to face their dismissive response when I say, "I'm a stay-at-home mom." It's obviously their opinion that I must not be capable of intelligent discourse. To be fair, there are days when I wonder if I'll come out of this period of my life able to carry on an adult conversation, yet I continue to read and expand my mind, all while discussing Thomas the Tank Engine and the Backyardigans on a daily basis.

There are avenues of courage that I have not been down. I look at my friend, Kathy, who is a single mom. She is amazing, and her daughter, the Divine Miss Em, is the most incredible kid you'll ever meet. They are living, breathing Gilmore Girls, complete with the snappy, whiplash-paced dialogue and witty pop culture references. But I can only imagine that there are days when a single mom gets completely overwhelmed. It's then that it takes courage to do what has to be done because there is no one else in your life to do it for you. Kathy has such a bright spirit and an amazing attitude that it's hard to imagine her down, but I know - like any of us - she must have her days. She's one courageous lady, and I admire her greatly.

I look at another friend whose child is disabled. Every day she tends to her child, giving him the most normal life she possibly can. She fights for him to be stretched socially, mentally, and physically so that one day he will be able to function without her there, knowing full well that for her son that day may never come. It takes courage to fight the tide of popular opinion armed with only your conviction and belief that you know what is best for your child.

Cheri' is a step-mother. She married a wonderful man who has three children. On her wedding day she not only vowed to love, honor and cherish her husband, but she promised to love and encourage his children as if they were her own. She is gentle and loving, but she can also be firm and hold the line when they cross boundaries that have been laid down. When many others would overstep their influence, Cheri' walks the tight rope of love and respect with her step-children with sure feet. I've never heard her refer to them as "step-kids" because in her mind, although she is not their mother, they are the children of her heart. It takes courage to invest love, not knowing if or when that love will ever be returned. She is blessed with children who value her presence in their lives, and cry when they leave her.

Another friend has raised her children while simultaneously caring for her declining parents - all in the same house. She is a part of the "sandwich generation." At the point where most of her friends are cutting the apron strings and watching their children become more and more self-sufficient, my friend is going in the opposite direction, becoming the parent and caretaker to the very people who parented her. It takes courage to watch your earthly source of stability slowly digress into childish and even infantile behaviors. While her friends are celebrating the "empty nest" phase of their lives, her nest has filled again with those who must be fed, cleaned and cared for. Yet she smiles and tends to her family with love and care. She's got courage.

These are just a few examples.

So the next time you see a mother struggling with her small (or not-so-small) child; or you run into a friend in the grocery store and she doesn't look her best; or you walk into your own mother's house and see the home she lovingly built for her family, take a minute and recognize that you stand in the presence of a courageous woman. She's a mom.

Learning to love a stranger

2006-10-13T22:36:00.000-05:00

I've never believed in love at first sight. Interest, intrigue, like, lust - yes. Love - no.

As we celebrated Opie's seventh birthday this week, I have tried and tried to put into words how I felt when he was born. Somehow, it never comes out right. So before I begin this, I need you to understand that I love my children and my husband more than anything else on this earth. I would do anything to protect and defend them.

But on the day Opie was born, I struggled with my emotions. We had tried for years to have a child. For several years it was all I could think about. After many failures and the discouragement that comes with them, I went back to school to finish my degree. It was while I was in college that I got pregnant. Surprise, surprise! Opie was born in the middle of my next-to-last semester. It was a happy time, and we were utterly thrilled to be given a child.

When they put him in my arms, I waited for that overwhelming rush of feeling that other mothers talk about. It didn't come. Don't misunderstand: I was in awe of the fact that Opie was ours, that he had come from us, that he looked exactly like I thought he would. But I also looked at this new little person in my arms, this little person who looked like me, and all I could think was "I don't know you." He was more than just our baby. He was a brand new person, with his own personality, his own feelings and his own mind. We had just met for the first time. He was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger.

I was stricken with guilt. Mothers are supposed to feel that magical love, aren't they? It just happens like the dawn of Spring, doesn't it? So what was wrong with me?

About 2 months before Opie was born, I had a dream that even to this day shakes me to my core. In the dream I walked into the theatre at Lamar (my alma mater) and someone asked me how my baby was. What baby? I asked them. They looked at me incredulously and told me that I had a new baby. After arguing with them, I suddenly had a vague memory of something, and I rushed home to the nursery. There in a crib was a little boy - filthy, hungry, and not crying because he knew no-one was coming to take care of him. I woke up sobbing, in a cold sweat, terrified that it was real. I even got out of bed to check the nursery just to make sure that it was only a dream. It has haunted me for all these years.

When I didn't have that tidal wave of feeling, it seemed like a validation of the dream, an indictment of my ability to be a good mother. I dreaded leaving the hospital, afraid that once we were home, I would be found out. Afraid the other mothers would point and whisper, that's her...the one who didn't love her baby properly. Who does she think she is?

It all sounds ridiculous now. I can't imagine my life without Opie or Calvin. I love them more than I could ever express. But my fear and doubt were overwhelming in those first few weeks.

I don't remember exactly when I realized that I did love my son that way. I just know that one day I couldn't remember what it was like to not have him. Every smile, every coo, every hiccup, every giggle filled me with joy and wonder. I could hardly bear to leave him, and I couldn't wait to get back to him. The thought of losing him painfully took my breath away.

I guess you could say that just like I fell in love with his daddy, I fell in love with my son. It didn't happen overnight, but it happened deeply and as surely as any storybook love that has ever been written.

Opie is seven now. He is still a joy. His wit and his intelligence amaze me every day and exasperate me on quite a few. He is fun-loving and usually happy, friendly and precocious, and a joy to be around. He has a capacity for love that is unending. I am so proud of him.

The morning of his birthday he came and climbed into bed with me, snuggling in to talk quietly for a while, as we sometimes do. I remembered bringing him into our bed in the early morning hours when he was a baby so that we could catch another hour or so of sleep. He has always been a snuggler, but as he gets older, he does less and less of it. I held him close and stroked his hair as we talked, cherishing the moment. I realize that it won't be too much longer before he'll be too cool to snuggle with momma.

I looked at his hand that I held and realized it is almost as big as mine. I flashed back to his tiny, perfect fingers curling around my index finger reflexively as I held him that first day. It makes me cry, but it also makes me glad that he is growing and learning and becoming who he is supposed to be.

One day Opie will read this. I hope he understands that my love for him is deep and real. I've always been told that love is a verb. Love means doing something - acting first, and letting feelings follow. My love for him is so complex. I loved him first because he was mine. I love him now just because he is. I will always love him because I'm his mother, and that's what we mothers do.

Honor and Sacrifice

2006-10-04T16:02:00.000-05:00

This afternoon, the body of Staff Sgt. Edward "Jay" Reynolds is being brought home to Port Arthur. He was killed in Iraq last week. As sad as this is, the rest of the story makes me angry.

You see, the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, KS - the group led by the infamous Fred Phelps - is making a special trip to Beaumont in order to protest at this fallen hero's funeral on Saturday. They aren't protesting because of SSgt. Reynolds or because of anything he did. They are protesting because they feel that American soldiers are dying due to the Bush Administration's "soft" policy toward gay rights. So on Saturday, these people will stand outside a church waiting for the family and friends of a young man who died for their right to free speech, and they will dishonor him and his sacrifice to promote their own agenda. I'm furious. I'm so angry that it makes me shake.

I don't care what your feelings are about the Bush Administration and its policies. I don't care if you agree with the War on Terror, and I don't care what your stance is on gay rights. None of those feelings are applicable to this situation. To disrespect a man or woman who paid the ultimate price in service to our country is despicable. It is dishonorable. I know our country is divided on all of these issues, and I know that the people reading this will be as well. That's okay. That's what makes America great - our ability to have strongly divergent opinions and to stridently defend those positions without fear of governmental retribution. This isn't about rights or freedoms.

This is about respect.

Respect for human life and the loss of it. Respect for the grief of a family who has lost a father, son, nephew, cousin and grandson. Respect for the heartbreak of a young bride who will not walk down the aisle to her handsome groom in his Class A's on New Year's Eve. Respect for the sacrifice that SSgt. Reynolds made because he believed in his role as a defender of the greatest nation in the world.

There is a time and a place to take a political stand on issues about which you feel strongly. I believe in the right to free speech and the right to assemble. This is not it. This is a time to mourn. It is a time to put aside political partisanship and to support one of our own local families, to let them know that their loss will not be dismissed or taken lightly.

It is a time for us to step out and show that we will not allow his death to be disrespected by those who did not know him and did not care about him. We are asking that all people in the area who are able, grab a flag and line the streets and the walkways of the Borden Chapel Missionary Baptist Church to shield the family and friends who are coming to mourn from the sight of the protestors.

My freedom (and yours) was bought and paid for by the blood of many who believed that freedom was worth any cost, even that of their lives. They sacrificed everything except their honor to ensure that those that came after them would live with liberty, not tyrrany and with freedom, not persecution. SSgt. Reynolds added his blood to the protective barrier that was begun hundreds of years ago. That is worthy of honor and respect and dignity.

So to SSgt. Edward Reynolds I say thank you for your life, for your honor and for your sacrifice. You will not be forgotten. And to all others I ask this: his sacrifice and many like it paid for your freedom. Isn't it worth an hour or two of your Saturday afternoon?

Fall Glory

2006-09-19T22:57:00.000-05:00

I love Fall. Spring is pretty cool, too, but for my money Fall is the season. The weather is good, school is back in session (yes, I'm one of the wierdos who liked school), football is upon us, baseball is finally getting good, and we're that much closer to Christmas. I love Fall.

The one thing I miss living in Southeast Texas is the way the leaves change in the fall. Down here, we really only have two seasons. Hot and humid, and cold and humid. Fall and Spring only last a few days, then it's hot again. We really don't get changing leaves. The beauty just isn't here.

On this date last year, I was in the process of packing up my life and my family and preparing to evacuate. Hurricane Rita was headed our way. Now if you're not from here, please understand that hurricanes are a way of life down here. We are only about 40 miles from the Gulf of Mexico, so we get hurricanes all the time. Evacuation is more of a pain than it is a frightening event - something we do, but don't take real seriously. So we packed our stuff just in case, and I threw a week's worth of clothes (all summer stuff) into the suitcases, and along with my boys and my mom, we headed for Springfield, Missouri to see my grandmother. It was convenient: we were planning to go up in a couple of weeks anyway, so we would make the trip now, and not have to take the time off of work later. After all, the danger would pass, and we would be on our way home on Monday. No one really believed that Rita was actually going to come ashore in Port Arthur and Sabine Pass.

Two days later, we watched in horror as Rita did exactly that. Suddenly we weren't vacationers: we were evacuees, not knowing if we even had homes to go back to. Our family was scattered, with my father and grandmother in one place, my mother-in-law in another and my husband working rescue in Rita's ground zero. Suddenly, our four-day vacation became a stay of indeterminate length.

Springfield was wonderful to us. We are blessed to have friends and family there, and that made it easier, but the community as a whole took us in. My mother had to return to work after staying two weeks, but the boys and I stayed at my husband's insistence. So we spent 5 weeks of Fall in Springfield.

It was amazing. Three days after we got there, Missouri got its first cold snap of the season. In September. We quickly procured sweatshirts and jeans and jackets and enjoyed a real, bonafide Fall.

One day as we drove down a residential street, Opie looked out the window and said, "Mommy? Why does that tree look like that?" I couldn't figure out what he was talking about at first, then I realized that the leaves on the tree were a brilliant red - not a rusty, almost dead brownish red, but a true, ruby red. They were gorgeous. The tree next to it had orange and yellow leaves interspersed with a few green holdouts. It was my sons' first true Fall.

You see, down here the only frame of reference we have for that is the construction paper crafts we make as little kids in school. "This is Fall, the leaves turning colors and floating to the ground." Uh, yeah...this is the Gulf Coast. They're green, they're brown, then they're gone. And that doesn't happen until about the end of November.

We revelled in the colors of Fall. We played at the park in the leaves, collecting them to make little rafts in the pond. We wandered through the zoo, watching them fall to ground. I would even drive through neighborhoods that I knew had the prettiest trees just so we could see them in all their glory. It made us forget for a few moments what we faced at home.

Hurricane Rita and its aftermath were no picnic, but for us October 2005 will always be the year that we had Fall for real. I'm convinced that God let us have that beauty so that our memories will always be sweet.

Bold Like You

2006-09-19T17:19:00.000-05:00

Two days after the great CHF (Calvin Hair Fiasco, see previous post) came Sunday morning, and as usual, church. Sunday mornings are particularly busy because of various duties and ministries in which we are involved. Our time at church begins before there is someone present to watch the kids, so AJ and I usually handle it. But this Sunday morning AJ was sleeping since he had worked the night before. My mother graciously offered to keep the boys for the hour in question, then bring them on to church with her.

This particular morning Calvin went strolling into the gym where his class is, and detoured (with Mimaw in tow) to the kitchen where he saw Bro. Wes, one of our faithful children's workers. Bro. Wes is bald, and when Calvin saw him, he traipsed right up to Bro. Wes and exclaimed, "Hey! I'm bold like you!" My mother laughed and related the story to me a few minutes later. He was trying to say "bald" and it came out "bold." However, it got me to thinking.

From the time we learned of each pregnancy, AJ and I have prayed over our children. We have prayed for their health and safety, for their salvation, for God's will to be ever present in their lives, for their spouses, for their decisions and for them to turn out to be exceptional human beings despite having us for parents. We still pray daily for them. And one of the prayers that I have prayed is for them to be bold. I want them to be brave and strong and courageous like the men of old and the men of today who stand up for what is right and put feet to their faith.

When I think of boldness, I think of men like Elijah, who took on a multitude of false priests, and challenged them to get their god to send down fire. When they couldn't, he stepped up, built the altar, drenched it with water, then stepped back and called on God to rain down fire. And God did. That's pretty bold.

I think of Stephen, who looked in the faces of the Sanhedrin and spoke the truth so plainly, so boldly, that their hearts were pierced. They took him out and stoned him, making him the first new testament martyr. Boldness is not without consequence, but his last vision on earth was of Christ standing to meet him. The payoff was worth it.

I think of Peter who overcame the debilitating defeat of his own betrayal of Christ to become the inspired speaker at Pentecost. His boldness often got him in hot water during his discipleship days, but as his faith matured, so did he, and he became the one of the greatest voices of the early church. Peter was bold, and God used him greatly.

I don't want my sons to be timid Christians who cower and hide their belief at the first sign of trouble. I want them to be men of God, who stand for what they believe and know why they believe it. I want them to speak out for right, even when it's not popular, and to show love when it's not easy. I want them to lead their wives and children in God's ways. My prayer is that God will take them and use them to bring glory and honor to him. It's more important than fame or wealth or comfort or security.

So yes, Bro. Wes, today Calvin is bald like you, but one day I pray that he will also be bold like you and the other bold men in his life. It's what any mother would want.

The portrait session

2006-09-16T20:14:00.000-05:00

I don't normally post pictures of my children here, and I don't use their real names. But today is a little different. You can't get the real effect of the story without a little show-and-tell. So here goes...

We decided it was time to have pictures done of the boys. We thought it would be cute since Opie has his really cool cast and is missing one of his front teeth. So we got shirts that matched the cast, and we took them to Sears. (Sears does great work by the way.)

It was a normal picture taking session - they didn't want to pose together, they didn't want to smile at the same time, when one was ready the other moved, etc. But by the grace of God, we finally got some nice shots.

In the middle of trying to pick out our sizes and poses, Opie decides he has to go to the bathroom RIGHT NOW. He couldn't hold it, and I knew he wasn't going to make it on the crutches all the way across the store. So I did what any mom would do - I threw him on my back, grabbed Calvin by the hand and we raced through Sears with amused salespeople pointing the way as I huffed and puffed my way to the bathroom. (I've really got to get back to the gym...in my spare time.) After he was done and I could breathe again, we went back, got our stuff and headed home.

We were no sooner home, than I realized that Puppy got left. Puppy is Calvin's stuffed dog that he loves more than anything. Puppy had gone with us, and he even ended up in the pictures. So I left the boys with AJ and headed back to the studio on a PEM (puppy extraction mission).

That's when it happened.

While I was gone, the boys found the scissors that I had left on the counter in my haste to get us out the door. They proceeded to cut their own hair...again. Opie only cut his bangs, so he just looks a little goofy, but Calvin...my darling Calvin...cut his drastically. He looked like he had mange. There was no salvage to be had. We did the only thing we could do: we shaved his head. I cried every time I looked at him last night. My beautiful Calvin went from

this to this in under an hour.

*SIGH* At least we got the pictures done first.

Sometimes ya just gotta love 'em and laugh.

Here Comes the Rain Again...

2006-09-16T13:00:00.000-05:00

It's raining outside. Unlike most people, I don't mind the rain. In fact, I really love it. A lot has happened in my life while it rained, some good and some bad. Of course, you could say the same thing if you really think about it.

When I was thirteen, my best friend died of cancer. The morning we found out, it was raining. I remember after my dad came in and told me (I already knew, but that's a different story for a different day)I went outside and just walked in the rain. I felt that no one would see my tears if I was in the middle of a rainstorm. So I wandered around the trailer park for a while, thinking about Jen and asking God why a thirteen-year-old had to die. It was in that rainstorm that I first came face to face with God's peace and grace.

I totalled my first car in a downpour. I was sixteen and spending my summer doing technical work for Lamar University Theatre's college and community show. I had been up there all afternoon, and I was headed home in the rain during rush hour when I hydroplaned, crossed every lane of traffic (without getting hit - thank you, Lord) and t-boned myself on an overpass support column. When I came to, my 1980 Mustang was crushed. I was terrified until I realized that I was okay - completely uninjured. Then I was terrified of what was going to happen to me. That Mustang was the first new car my parents had ever bought. They drove it for several years before turning it over to me when I got my license, but it was still the first new car they had ever bought. I remember thinking "I killed my car." The next thought came right on its heels - "Daddy's gonna kill me." My mom picked me up and took me somewhere with her (after hugging me tightly and making sure I was okay). I sat in a corner on the floor out of the way and fretted over my dad's reaction. I was scared that he was going to be so angry that I had wrecked the car. I just knew that I was going to be grounded until the day I died. Then we went home, and my dad met us on the porch, and hugged me tighter than I ever remember him hugging me before or after. It was in that rainstorm that I learned that Daddy's concern for me went far beyond a dumb car.

It was raining the day I met my husband. Headed back to the sorority house to study, I knew I'd never make it, so I ducked into the Baptist Student Union. Curled up in a comfy chair in a quiet corner, I proceeded to try to make sense of college algebra. There were a couple of people sitting at a table playing cards, and then this really cute, really tall guy walked in. They all decided they wanted to play spades, and asked me to be the fourth. I had lost all the brain cells to algebra that I could handle for one day, so I agreed and sat down across the table from said cutie. We kicked some major tail (all in Christian love, of course) before the rain let up, and I left to go to the dorms. We wouldn't see each other again for several months, but our first meeting set the stage for the next seventeen years of my life. It was in that rainstorm that I met the love of my life.

It rained on my wedding day. I was glad that it did. I was seeing a pattern, and I considered it a sign of God's blessings raining down on our marriage.

It rained on both of the days that my sons were born. Showers of blessings indeed. Those rainstorms brought such joy into my life. Opie, Calvin and I dance around, singing "Raindrops keep falling on my head..." We love it.

So now when it rains, I'm ready to see what blessings the Lord has for that day. He blesses on days that it doesn't rain, too, but the rain always makes me smile. So when I see dark clouds or hear the patter of rain on the roof and the windows, I just thank God and say "here comes the rain again!"

I could use a little help here!

2006-09-06T23:17:00.000-05:00

One day several years ago AJ and I were sitting in the living room talking after putting the boys to bed when we heard a call from Opie's room: "Hey! I could use a little help here!"

Opie was about three at the time. He was reaching for something that was over his head - of course he wasn't supposed to have it. As he got his chubby little hands around it, something on top of it began to slip, and he held on to the desired item while trying to keep the stuff on top from falling on his head.

We walked in to see him balancing precariously, wide-eyed and busted - big-time. But the fact that he was busted didn't matter at that moment. He needed help or his world was going to come tumbling down around his ears. Then he said it again with a little more panic. "Could I get a little help here?" We were laughing so hard the tears were rolling down our faces as we set things right, put the items completely out of his reach and - after talking about staying out of things that are off limits - tucked him back in bed.

AJ and I have laughed about that incident for almost four years now. The picture of this fresh-faced toddler boy coming out with "I could use a little help here" cracks us up.

But I realize as I think about that memory that I must look like that to God at times. How many occasions have there been when I've gone off on my own way and done my own thing, only to look up and realize that the house of cards I had built was crumbling in on me. And only then did I look up and cry out to God: "Hey! I could use a little help here!"

Amy Grant released a song over 20 years ago called "So Glad." It's always been one of my favorites. It talks about this very thing.

I had made some mighty plans
Thought I held them in my hands
Then my world began to crumble all away.
I tried to build it back again,
I couldn't bear to see it end.
How it hurt to know you wanted it that way.

But I'm so glad,
Glad to find a reason that I'm happy,
Sad that you've torn it all away.
And I'm so glad, though it hurts to know I'm leaving
Everything I ever thought that I would be.
Once I held it in my hand
It was a kingdom made of sand,
But now you've torn it all away
I can't believe that I can say
That I'm glad.

How silly I must look to God when I try to plan and direct my own life without consulting him first. You would think that by now I would know better, but alas, I catch myself still calling for help when I've royally messed up.

Yet God stands by, and when I call out, he's right there. I can picture him shaking his head as he pulls the rubble off of me and begins to dust me off. Then he reminds me that he would have helped all along, had I only asked sooner. But now, because I did it my own way, there's a mess to clean up, and that takes work, time, and sometimes, pain. He loves me too much to make it easy, knowing that I never learn when it's easy. Dependence on him is what makes life bearable and wonderful.

Motherhood is not for cowards

2006-09-06T22:31:00.000-05:00

Motherhood is not for cowards. It is a triathalon of speed, endurance and flexibility...the everyday Ironwoman competition.

Every day a mother lives by the mantra "outwit, outplay, outlast." If Mark Burnett were to watch a mother of small children in action, the next show he did would be "Survivor: Suburban Home," with a tribe of non-parental adults and a tribe of pre-schoolers and early schoolers. The immunity necklace would be made of string and macaroni. The children would probably win.

I thought being a stay-at-home mom would be a walk in the park. After all, I was a teacher. I had 20+ kids at a time every day. Two would be easy, especially since they were my own. (Okay...you can stop laughing now.)

I didn't count on the fact that at school I could hide in my office or the teacher's lounge if I didn't want to be found. There is no "mommy's lounge" at home. I can't even hide in the bathroom...they find me. And if I lock the door, they just stand outside and talk to me until I come out.

I didn't factor in the short class times which create less exposure to said children. I don't get "class changes." I have mine all day, every day.

There aren't sick days and vacation days, either. Generally, if I'm sick, they are as well, or I've caught it from them, and they are now on the mend. And the vacation thing? They always seem to come along.

I forgot that at home I got to be the librarian, the coach, the lunch lady, the crossing guard, the principal, the after-school caregiver, the art teacher, and the parent. And there is no stipend for the extra positions.

Most days none of that bothers me. I love being home. I love being the one to teach Opie to read and Calvin to recognize his numbers. I love lazy days where we stay in our pajamas and read books and play video games and eat pop tarts for breakfast...and lunch. I love playing "poke/tickle" with Calvin until he's pooped from all the laughing and squirming. I love being a mom.

But occasionally the other days sneak in. You know, the days that are destined for failure. The days that you feel like a failure. Sometimes they are evident from the moment you wake up. Other times, they attack in a guerilla-type style...you don't see them coming.

Today was one of those days. A friend of mine put it beautifully when she said, "they are driving each other crazy, and their very breathing is getting on my nerves." Yep. That's how it felt today. Nothing seemed to make anybody happy. Opie wanted to play video games, knowing he was grounded from them. Calvin wanted to color with markers on anything except the paper. Neither one wanted what was offered for lunch. Neither one wanted to do anything that mommy suggested. Mommy wanted to book a one-way ticket to Bermuda...the Triangle would have been fine, thank you.

Sharp words flew between the boys. In turn, I responded with sharp words and a sharp tone. Way to go, Mom. Set that great example. It's at times like this that I sometimes think, I am SO not cut out for this. Whatever made me think I was capable of doing this? My emotions overflow and I actually listen to the garbage that I am self-talking.

Then I realize that God gave me my children. He gave me my children...the ones he created just for me. The ones who have all the personality traits that I can see when I look into the honesty mirror. And if God gave them to me, then I know that I can handle them and this thing called motherhood.

I cannot, however, do it alone. I have to rely on him. Remembering that his strength is made perfect in my weakness, I think that his strength must be pretty perfect at this point, because I've got a LOT of weaknesses. But God is always there, waiting for me to turn to him and say, "help me please?" I just don't always ask.

He also gives me friends and family to turn to when the struggles get tough. Other mothers who are in the fray as well as those who've gone before me. The ones who remind me that "this too shall pass." They comfort, encourage, help garner perspective and most importantly, they pray for me. How precious the intercessory prayers of other are.

And sometimes, he just gives me sleep and a beautiful morning to wash it all away. Knowing that God's mercies are new every morning is a comfort and an example. You see, if God can look at me and say mercifully that today is a new day, then I have to give my children that same mercy. They may have been hellions yesterday, but today is a new day, complete with forgiveness and new mercy. So let's start over. Then today won't be a failure...it's an opportunity to show grace and love, and that's a beautiful morning.

The phone call

2006-09-04T20:18:00.000-05:00

I started this whole blogging thing off with a post about
grace. I learned again recently how utterly sufficient God's grace truly is.

I recently switched gynecologists. I have seen the same ob/gyn since I was eighteen - through two miscarriages, infertility issues, and two babies - so it was a bit unnerving to go to someone new. My new doctor looked over my records and my family history, and he felt that even though I was below the national age standard, I should proceed with my first mammogram. "Okay," I said, "no big deal." I would rather be safe than sorry.

Therefore, a week after my first visit with him, I was back for my first mammogram. My first thought was that I was taking that baby step down the slippery slope to middle age. Okay, I said to myself. I can age gracefully. And I went through the process with a feeling akin to empowerment. I felt like I was taking control of my own health. I walked out of the office feeling strong and in charge.

Then the phone call came. My mammogram was questionable, they said, and more tests are needed. They stressed that it didn't look like cancer, but there something that needed further exploration. Could I come in the next week for another mammogram and an ultrasound?

"Sure," I said calmly. "No problem." And as I hung up the phone, my hand began to shake.

Reason said this was no big deal. Reason said that chances are slim that there was a real problem. Fear, on the other hand, said if the slim chance came to fruition, my family's world would never be the same. The "what ifs" were crowding my brain. Then again, I've been called a major drama queen before.

The first thing I did when I got off the phone was emailed out a plea for prayer from my girlfriends. I believe in prayer. I believe in its power. I know God hears.

Then my human nature took over, and I sat down and cried.

But as I went back for the tests, I felt a calm that I couldn't explain. After I left, I actually was able to not think about it for several days. It wasn't an intentional thing. It just didn't enter my mind. Then the results came in. "Normal and negative," the sheet read. Normal and negative. I have never been so glad to be called "normal" or "negative" in all my life.

The results, however, were inconsequential. You see, God had already reminded me that I wasn't in control of my health...he was. My life - and death - is in his hands. And I realized that no matter the outcome of those tests, God is still good. He is still just. He is still loving, and he is always in control. It was his grace that sustained me and comforted me. When I let him take the anxiety away, he did.

Isn't God good...all the time? Oh yes, I'm glad that he is.

Consequences

2006-08-27T21:58:00.000-05:00

Everything we do in life has fallout, whether it be the smallest of kindnesses done in anonymity or the largest of gaffes in a public forum. There are reactions to every action, and effects from every cause. It is a natural law, whether in a scientific realm or a spiritual realm. Everything has consequences including the consequences themselves.

Opie learned this lesson the hard way today. He fractured his leg while throwing a temper tantrum. His disregard of the rules and his lack of self-control created a situation in which he was the one who was hurt. It's a tough lesson to learn, especially for a six-year-old. Self-control is not his strong suit, and I can't lay all the fault for that at his door because I struggle with it, too.

Self-control is not my strong suit, either. I could say that it's because of my personality type and temperament, but that's an excuse. It's not my strong suit because for a long time I chose not to pursue it. I'm just an emotional person, I would say. That's just how I am...passionate, dramatic, and full of life. In reality, I allowed my emotions to rule me instead of the other way around. It is something that I battle daily. Unfortunately, that is a battle that my children have seen me lose far too often. The consequence of that is their lack of self-control. Ouch.

In Galatians 5:22-23, Paul lists the fruit of the Spirit. The last on the list is temperance - or self-control, depending on your translation. It shares company with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness and gentleness - not a bad list of companions. I realize how frequently my own life is a scant orchard when it comes to these things.

So while we wait for Opie's leg to heal, we will practice patience...he can't go to TaeKwonDo, and I'll be waiting on him hand and foot. Guess there's plenty of room to practice self-control as well!

Love at the Zoo

2006-08-16T17:17:00.000-05:00

Last fall, during our evacuation from Hurricane Rita, I fell in love with Gigi. She is tall and red-headed, with long legs and the most gentle eyes I've ever seen. I would see her almost every day when we met outside, and we bonded over snacks with the breezes blowing around us. She didn't say much, but she brought so much joy and happiness to my life during that horribly long five weeks away from home that I'll never be able to thank her properly.

Did I mention that Gigi is a giraffe?

As my boys and I sat in Springfield, Missouri, not knowing when we could return to our home, dependent on the help and goodwill of family, friends and complete strangers, we were often at a loss as to what to do. One day, I took the boys to the Dickerson Park Zoo to break up the boredom. We don't live that close to a zoo (Houston is as close as it comes), so we loaded up and went. It was a nice, cool fall day (yes, they have those there), and as we wandered around the zoo, looking at the hippos and warthogs and meerkats, the zebras and snakes and alligators, we came upon a wooden walkway with a sign reading "giraffe deck." I realized that there was a platform at the top, where we could be eye to eye with the giraffes. So we wandered up the walk, and at the top, we found a small booth with a nice young man inside selling what looked to be the largest triscuits on the planet. "Feed the giraffes, 3 wafers for $1." It sounded like a good deal, so we bought $3 worth, and moved over to the railing to experience giraffe feeding.

I must admit that feeding giraffes was never one of my life's ambitions - it didn't even rank on my "Do before I die" list, but as we held out our wafers and watched the giraffes sniff the food and us, I was struck at how gentle and fragile-looking they were. Then suddenly, a long, purplish-black tongue stretched out and nimbly wrapped around my fingers to take the wafer. I was stunned and delighted at the same time. As I looked at the giraffe, it almost seemed as though she winked at me, as if to say "Gotcha!" She knew I was a first-timer. I was hooked.

That day we bought a family membership to the zoo, and we went almost every day they were open. Opie and Calvin loved spending time at the zoo, watching the cheetahs play tag and the monkeys swing; laughing at the flamingos as they took their famous one-legged repose; watching the wallabies and Patagonian cavies sun themselves; and giggling as the hippo played with her big purple ball. But there was nothing we looked forward to more than going to the giraffe deck and feeding the giraffes. We laughed and giggled and snorted and hooted as Gigi and her cohorts sniffed, nudged, licked and slurped the wafers from our fingers. We were regulars. During a time when our world was unsure and a little scary, Gigi gave us a schedule and some structure.

Our last day in Springfield, the boys and I took Hubby (who had been in Texas for the entire time) to the zoo to meet Gigi and her friends. He, too, was delighted and laughed heartily as Gigi slurped the wafers from his fingers, and actually licked the top of his head when Calvin offered her wafer from his perch on Daddy's shoulders. The memories that we built at the zoo will never be forgotten.

I never particularly cared for giraffes before I met Gigi. But now the simple mention of the species or a picture of a gangly creature with knobby horns and long neck can cause a smile to drift across my face and joy to fill my heart.

I love Gigi, and I'm really glad we met.

Taking up the Mantle

2006-08-12T02:17:00.000-05:00

Three months ago my husband's mother, Joyce, passed away after a year-long decline. When she died, a strange thing happened - something that has happened since death became a part of the human existence. My husband became the foundation of his family.

His father died fifteen years ago when he was a young adult - still very much a boy, although in a man's body. We hadn't been serious for very long when it happened, but I remember being quite sad, not so much for a loss that I felt (although I thought his dad was a lovely man), but for him as he tried to cope with losing his beloved father. He struggled to be strong for his mother - to be a man upon whom she could lean - while facing his own grief. However, through it all, his mother was still there to share memories and advice (which she did quite freely) and to maintain the role of matriarch of our clan, small though it may be.

But three months ago, my husband took up her mantle like Elisha of old. With Joyce's passing, more than just her estate was inherited by her son. He became the holder of the family treasures; the memory bank for faces in old photographs, the storyteller of family lore, the caretaker of the traditions, and the font of family wisdom. It's a heavy load, but one he has carried with grace and dignity.

I cannot pretend to understand how he must feel. I don't even want to imagine what it will be like - if the Lord doesn't come back first - to be without my parents. My parents don't even know what he is feeling, since they both still have their mothers. Yet I watch AJ, and I see a man who gladly shoulders his family's heritage in order to pass it on to his children.

I also see a man who is learning every day the truth of the scriptures that say that God will be a father to the fatherless and that His strength is made perfect in our weakness. We tend to associate wisdom with age and experience, yet I see a man of relatively few years growing in wisdom in order to lead his family in the ways of the Lord. Proverbs says that if we actively seek after wisdom and diligently chase understanding, they will be awarded to us. I see my husband keeping company with Wisdom, Strength, Good Counsel, Prudence, Discretion and the Fear of the Lord. These are the companions of the Book of Proverbs that God exhorts.

I have always loved my husband. I have been proud of him numerous times in the sixteen years that we have been together. I have never respected him more than I do right now. And as we grow old together (by the grace of God), I will smile as I remember the time when he took up the Patriarchal mantle and led our family to the great things that God has in store for us.

Aha! Moments

2006-08-03T05:20:00.000-05:00

I have recently began to find it interesting how God himself seems to tell us when something is about to happen in our lives. It isn't always big things; in fact, it's often small matters - personal, spiritual "AHA" moments. When we look back from those moments we can see the footprints of God leading up to them.

Case in point: I've been reading a book lately called Humility: True Greatness by C.J. Mahaney. In Humility, Mahaney asserts that as Christians our every purpose should be to bring glory to God, and that anytime we allow glory to be cast on ourselves we defeat our purpose. I totally agreed with this sentiment...before I started reading the book. As I read, I began to see the pride in my own life - both in the obvious places and in the hidden ones. I was convicted.

Conviction stinks. It eats at you until you do something about it. So I repented and - feeling okay about it - went on my merry little way.

Then I had a run-in with my pride again, only this time I was "justified" because I was insulted by someone else. I humphed and groused and even patted myself on the back for handling it with grace. I'm a real dope, sometimes.

You see, I then came across a chapter in the book that talks about how true humility comes from recognizing God's grace at work in others' lives instead of passing judgment and complaining about them. Ouch. That stung.

Then in my Bible study, I came across a passage in I Peter 2 that talks Christ's response to ill treatment: he didn't complain or lash out or retaliate in any way. It also reminded me that I am to show respect to all people and to love God's family. Ouch again.

The final step toward the AHA moment came during the mid-week sermon on gentleness. Gentleness, it seems, is loving and understanding and full of grace that is given to others because grace has been given to us by our Father. Okay, God...I think I've got it now. Like I said, sometimes I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

As I resolved the situation - which was completely borne of my own erroneous take on an off-handed comment - I thought to myself, now I can sleep well tonight. Little did I know.

You see, for the second time in a single day, I had another one of those moments. (I guess technically you could say it's a different day, but work with me here. I haven't slept yet.) I came home, I put the boys to bed, and after they were asleep, I tucked myself in for some quality Serta-appreciation time. However, it didn't happen. I tossed and turned and turned and tossed and tried to read and prayed some, but sleep would not come. As 4:00 a.m. rolled by I was getting exasperated: come on, Lord, I thought, I have stuff to do today and I need some rest.

Then I heard it. The creaking of a door and the oh-so-quiet footsteps of a child who doesn't want to be discovered. I listened for a minute, then I silently got out of my bed and - thanking God for squeaky pocket doors - moved down the hallway to scope out the mischief that was afoot. Sure enough, there was Opie, with both feet firmly planted in the red zone. He was well and truly busted, and he knew it. All he could do was turn around and grab on for dear life and say "Hug, Mama." (He still thinks that will get him out of the jams of his own making.) "I was looking for you," he says. I reminded him that in the middle of the night, I'm usually in my bed, so that's the first place he should look.

After we discussed what he was doing and why it was a bad idea, I gently kissed him good night and tucked him back in, stroking his head until he went to sleep. And I as I did, I thanked God that he had kept me awake in order to keep my child safe. I also thanked him for never sleeping and always watching over me and my family. Humility reminded me that I can't keep my children safe - not really. I can try, but realistically the only safety my family has is in the hands of the Almighty, Omniscient and Omnipresent God.

And once again I said "Aha!" Now I'm going to bed to sleep soundly.

Discipline

2006-07-22T22:45:00.000-05:00

One of the hardest parts of parenting is discipline. Before I had children, this concept didn't seem so difficult: they misbehave, you "discipline" them, and of course the little darlings will do exactly what you wanted them to do afterward. (Okay, you can stop laughing now....)

It wasn't that long after Opie was born that I began to get the idea that perhaps I was mistaken. Opie was a great baby. He wasn't very fussy unless he was sick, he slept through the night early on, he was a generally happy child, and he was fairly compliant. Then he turned two. At the age of two, he decided that things needed to be done his way.

His first major tantrum came on Christmas Eve. We had gone to the bookstore in the mall. This bookstore has a large children's section featuring a train table where the children can play with the toys that are sold in the store...marketing techniques that were developed by Satan himself, I'm quite certain. My husband was working, so I took Opie to the bookstore by myself. I did some quick, last-minute shopping, then sat down near the train table to read for a couple of hours while my darling angel-baby played happily. All was well until it was time to go. Suddenly my happy little red-head became a raging, screaming, bucking, kicking demon. (If you've seen The Incredibles, you recognize this description...he was the basis for Jack-Jack, I'm sure of it. I'm still waiting for the royalty check.) As I held my little darling, I stood in line. Soon I could hear the murmurings from behind me..."why doesn't she just leave?" and "if that were my child, I'd...(feel free to insert any given disciplinary technique here)" and my personal favorite, "some people have no business being parents." I was NOT going to get out of that line. I had gifts to buy. However, I was not going to cave into Opie's temper, either. So I stood there, with him on my shoulder and my books under my other arm, becoming increasingly embarrassed and angry. By the time we got to the car, I was ready to spank his little bottom until I was tired. I calmed down slightly on the way home, but he still received the disciplinary action he had earned.

Side note: It is at this point that I am tendering my sincerest apologies to any parent or grandparent to whom I have given a terse look or a snide comment as their charge expressed themselves in the way that only children can. I'm even apologizing to those I thought ugly things about. Please know that God has truly humbled me through my boys.

We both survived that Christmas Eve, but I began to realize something. Often as parents we use the word "discipline" interchangeably with the word "punishment." Or perhaps, more accurately, we interchange the definitions. Discipline is teaching through correction and admonition - it is leading another to the discovery of what is right. Punishment is negative reinforcement. Discipline happens between a parent and a child. Punishment happens to a child, generally at the hands of his parent. Sometimes, discipline and punishment go hand in hand, and sometimes punishment is warranted. But I'm afraid that too often, we punish instead of disciple.

We call Christ's closest followers his "disciples." This means that he taught them, but it also means that at some point, he disciplined them. When the twelve were caught in the storm on the Sea of Galilee, Christ's response to their panic was short: "Oh ye of little faith." When they had petty fights regarding who among them was the greatest, he just shook his head at their arrogance and idiocy and reminded them that the greatest among them was the least - that to be truly great you must truly serve others.

We also know that he nurtured them. After his death and resurrection, Jesus sat on the shore with Peter and the others after calling them in from the water. Remember that it was Peter who said "I'm going fishing." Peter's self-worth was gone; he had betrayed Christ after declaring his undying loyalty. I can only imagine Peter's utter disgust with himself after Jesus's crucifixion and resurrection. He didn't think he deserved to be a disciple of Christ, so he returned to what he had known before: fishing. As the men sat around the fire on the shore, Christ asked Peter a simple question: "Do you love me?"

God asks me this question often, especially when I disobey him. "Hey, Gina, do you love me?" And I am often in the same boat as Peter; disgusted, feeling worthless and without redemption. But just like Jesus by the fire, God gently prods me to answer and to remember that he doesn't love me because I have earned it or deserve it. He loves me because I am his. And because I am his, I sometimes - ofttimes - have to be disciplined. It's never fun, but I always know God loves me.

I am reminded that my boys are my disciples; it is up to me to lead them to the realization of what is right. When Opie and Calvin are disciplined, all the parties involved feel better - closer - after it is over. With punishment, there is a rift between us. It's a very telling barometer in our house. After discipline, the boys usually cuddle up in our laps, snuggling and quietly talking for a time. God snuggles me, too, after I've been disciplined. I never feel closer than when I've had to learn from my mistakes and turn to him and confess my sins. He wraps his arms around me, and I hear the heartbeat of God; the heartbeat that says "I love you, I love you, I love you."

It's a great place to be.

Boys

2006-07-14T14:04:00.000-05:00

I have always heard how different boys are from girls - not the physiological differences, but the inherent differences that separate them. I didn't believe it: then I had children. Now I swear by it.

In his book, Wild at Heart, author John Eldredge asserts that God placed a certain wildness in the hearts of boys that reflects very specific characteristics of Himself. The adventures that boys create and participate in are part and parcel of that nature.

Today I received an email from a friend with the title line "This is for families who have a son and for the ones who are glad they don't." It contained several pictures of boys doing things that boys do: putting frogs in their mouths, "watering" the hedges, diving into leaf piles and other boyish activities. I laughed so hard that I cried, not only because the stuff was hysterically funny, but because some of it looked startlingly familiar.

For the last few years, our family and friends have taken great interest in Opie and Calvin and the inherently "boy" things they do. And boy-howdy, have these two come up with some schemes.

Two weeks ago while I was running errands, their daddy walked in to find them finger-painting the coffee table. It was everywhere: the table, the rug, the couch, the floor, the walls, and the boys. Knowing my reaction would probably be - um - less than tolerant, my husband had the good sense to clean it all up before I got home. It was a mess, but to his credit, he got most of it. It was the green handprint on the hallway wall that gave them away - and the footprint on the carpet.

Then he shares with me that our boys undertook a geometric distance experiment. Our living room, hallway and kitchen walls create a right triangle with the respective doorways as the intersections. Opie and Calvin decided to see how many times a roll of toilet paper would wrap around that triangle: it was 7 1/2, in case you're wondering.

They do home remodeling as well. I walked into our front bathroom and noticed the toilet paper roll was empty (I'm seeing a pattern here). Then I felt a small thud on my shoulder. A glance in the mirror showed me a large wet, white wad gracing my dress shirt. With great dread, I looked up at the ceiling to find it had been - retextured, shall we say. There was an entire roll of paper torn into bits, wet and dripping, stuck to the ceiling of the bathroom like a million spitballs. Opie thought it looked cool. We're still trying to get it all off.

Sometimes they do these things when I'm the only one around. There was the Sunday morning that their daddy was at work. Calvin woke up before me, and he managed to get out of his room without waking me. He was hungry, so he fixed breakfast. Need I remind you that he is three? He wanted some of his daddy's birthday cake, so he got it out, brought it to the (cloth) couch, and proceeded to scoop up a large bowl. There was more on the couch than in the bowl. It took me an hour to get it all cleaned up. As I walked back toward my room to get ready for church - and I was not feeling particularly spiritual at this point - I happened to glance into his room. He had found a blue Sharpie marker and had gone all "Braveheart" on himself. There was a bright blue line from his hairline to his belly button, and he was coloring one side solidly, permanently blue. Another hour and an entire bottle of alcohol (the Isopropyl kind, not the Quervo kind) later, he was his regular self again. We were late to church that day.

Several years ago when Opie was potty-training, we had a church-wide activity one night. I was working in the kitchen, and hubby was supposed to be watching the child. One of the ladies walks in smirking and says to me, "I thought you should know that your son is in the ladies' restroom in nothing but his birthday suit." He had to go, you see, and that's what we did at home. I raced into the restroom with visions of my son - the associate pastor's grandson and namesake - streaking through the gym looking for affirmation for a good potty. Luckily I got to him before he took off. Crisis averted. Not so with his little brother.

Calvin stood up in a large group the other day and announced very loudly that he liked his...male parts. This was following a discussion with his daddy about why boys are built differently than girls. I'm glad his self-esteem is high, but we're working - constantly - on appropriateness.

It's things like this that make mothers alternately laugh and cringe. If you've never had boys, I'm not sure I can adequately explain it. It's crayons in pockets that are never found until they are all over the load of clothes coming out of the dryer. It's a collection of rocks that to you looks like junk but to him looks like priceless treasure. It's walking through a wet parking lot and finding every puddle between the car and your destination. It's swordfights with pretzels and shootouts with straws full of Kool Aid.

It's heaven on earth, and I would never change a thing.

Responsibility and Tolerance in Faith and Freedom

2006-07-09T23:54:00.000-05:00

I think it's intriguing how God weaves his ideas - garnered from different places - together to create a tapestry in one person's perspective.

I sat in church this morning and listened to a guest speaker from California talk about what evangelism really is. It's not bad hair and southern drawls and dichotomous public and private behavior. It's not just going forth and preaching the gospel to every person. It's personal responsibility. I have a responsibility to tell people about Christ. I tell them about Christ in the way I live my life; in the way I talk; in the things I allow into my mind, heart and home; in the way I dress; and also in the way I share my faith.

The speaker, Chuck, gave a sobering example from his own life of a man who came into his circle of influence. This man was not a Christian and made that clear. As he and Chuck became friends and began to hang out on a regular basis, Chuck knew that he should talk to his friend about Christ, but he allowed fear to hold him back for a year and a half. One day, they began to talk, and Chuck felt compelled to speak up. As he shared his faith in Christ his friend listened intently. Finally he spoke up and asked Chuck, "Do you really believe what you're telling me?"

Chuck was fervently sincere as he assured his friend that he absolutely believed what he was saying. His friend's next statement rocked Chuck's world. You see his friend was offended because if Chuck truly believed, he had never in the year and a half that they had built a friendship shared this faith with his friend before. "If you truly thought that if I died today without Christ I would go to hell, why did you wait so long to tell me? Did you not think enough of me to want to prevent that outcome for me?" Talk about bringing it home. Chuck's story has a happy ending. His friend did eventually accept Christ, but that conversation has stayed in Chuck's mind ever since.

I had a situation that very well could have played out like that. Millie and I were close in high school, and for three years we were constantly together. I often felt the tug to share my faith with her, but I was afraid that she would think I was a dork and that would end our friendship. Besides, she knew I was a preacher's kid. That counted, right? (Duh...) After we grew apart, it ate at me for ages that I had never shared my faith with her, and finally - sixteen years later - I found her email address on a website, and contacted her. As we rekindled our friendship, the subject was finally broached, and you can imagine my joy to learn that she not only believed like I did, she was letting it play out in all areas of her life. Thanks be to God!

Tonight my friend, Millie, emailed me and asked me to check out a post on her blog at http://cabin77.blogspot.com. If you read hers, you'll see that it mirrors the ideas that Chuck talked about. Isn't God nifty?

Something else that Millie touches on is tolerance, and the double standard to which Christians are held regarding the world's view of tolerance. You see, the world expects us to not only live and let live, but to live and openly support all lifestyles and beliefs, yet they refuse to afford us the same courtesy. Christianity is being systematically removed from the very country that was founded on it.

In Plymouth, Massachusetts, there is an amazing statue called the Monument to the Forefathers. It is a woman flanked by four smaller figures who sit at the corners of her pedestal. The woman holds a Bible in one hand. She is Faith, and she looks to be speaking to the other four: Morality, Education, Law and Liberty. It is clear to all who see this monument that Faith was the primary principle upon which our country was founded. The others stemmed from her, yet today Faith has been diminished, overshadowed by questionable Morality, humanistic Education, relative Law and misunderstood Liberty. Without faith, the others have little basis or meaning. Laws are being passed to "protect" the liberties of others based on morals that are unclear and an educational system that okays teaching children that they are a fluke of nature based in primordial ooze while adamantly refusing to allow God in school in any way. And I am supposed to nod and smile when my beliefs and convictions are stepped on, quashed and taken away in the name of freedom.

Hmm...doesn't sound very free to me.

I don't expect everyone to believe what I believe. My job is to share the gospel, not cram it down their throats until they gag on it. You see, when God created man, he gave man something that no other being in all of creation was given: free will. That means that some are going to refuse to accept God's grace and mercy. To misquote Bobby Brown, that's their prerogative. However, the consequences of that choice are clearly spelled out in God's Word. No belief equals no hope. Without the acceptance of Christ there is no admittance to heaven. And no, God is not selective, we are. He made the gift available to anyone who will call on Him. So whose fault is it if I choose not to accept the gift? Certainly not His.

God also calls me to love people and hate sin. He doesn't tell me to commit hate crimes in the name of my beliefs. He doesn't tell me to destroy others who don't live by my values. He does, however, tell me that I have a duty to stand up for my beliefs. I cannot and will not accept the world's definition of tolerance. I will, however, strive to love as Christ loved and accept as Christ accepted.

Edmund Burke once said that the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. I won't stand idly by.

Family Traditions

2006-07-08T22:57:00.000-05:00

Family traditions are always special. Some are passed down from generation to generation, like the reading of the Christmas story or a certain meal on Easter. Some traditions are well-thought out by parents who want to create a ritual with their children, like good night prayers or specific bedtime stories or college football game attendance. Yet other traditions happen completely by accident. In our house a couple of new traditions have surfaced that were completely accidental.

In early spring, we went to visit a high-school friend of mine. We had reconnected after many years, and it was the first time we had the opportunity to meet each other's husbands and children. While we were there, she did something that my kids loved: she made colored pancakes. At first I cringed. Great, I thought, now I'm going to have to start doing this at home, or my kids will think I'm a bad mother. Once we were home, however, I found that it was actually quite fun, allowing the boys to choose which color the pancakes would be. We always freeze the extras so that if there is a particular aversion to blue one day, we can always fall back on orange or green. It is a simple little thing involving food coloring, but it gives my boys such joy, especially on dreary days, that it makes it worthwhile. There is nothing that makes a rainy day better than a big batch of sunny yellow pannycakes. Memories are made with a simple drop of color into a bowl of batter. It doesn't get easier than that.

Earlier this week, my husband and I were trying to get the boys to bed, and both boys were loudly protesting their need for a midnight snack of peanut butter fold-overs. Finally realizing that if you can't beat 'em, you can feed 'em, we caved and made the sandwiches. As I was spreading the peanut butter, my husband began to sing "Good night, sweetheart, well it's time to go..." I joined in, and soon we were serenading our face-stuffing sons in two part harmony. The boys giggled and laughed: so did we. But the next night, as I put Calvin to bed, he said, "Sing to me, Mommy."

This is a highly unusual request. I've been known to be able to sing adequately well, but my boys usually ask me not to. My mother says it's payback since that's what I did to her. Perhaps that in and of itself is a family tradition. But I digress...

"What do you want me to sing?"

He began to sing to me, and I started to smile. Soon we were singing "good night sweetheart, well it's time to go/ bum, bum, ba dum..." to each other. It's been a required element of every bedtime and naptime since, and it usually has to be sung about twenty times before Calvin is happy.

Traditions and rituals are a part of society at large, and part of families on a smaller scale. Every family has different traditions that are uniquely theirs, and sometimes those get inadvertently passed to others, like the pancakes. But the traditions that start accidentally are particularly special and particularly memorable.

Perhaps one day, Calvin will be rocking his child to sleep, and from the mists of his memory he will begin to hum our song, and it will bring a smile to his face and a lightness to his heart. Then his child will look up and say, "Sing to me, Daddy," and a family tradition will be passed down yet again. After all, isn't that what traditions are all about?

Supermommy

2006-07-07T11:48:00.000-05:00

When I was the drama teacher for a private middle school, I had a running joke with each of my classes that began early in my career.

"Mrs. M," a student asked one day, "will you give us time to study before the quiz?"

"Of course I will." I replied. "And why would I be so kind, you ask? Because I'm..." (dramatic pause) "SUPERTEACHER!"

We all laughed and went on, but the bit stuck. After a while, all I had to say was "because I'm...," and my students would reply with one voice: "SUPERTEACHER!" It was our running joke, and we all enjoyed it.

Later that semester as I walked with another teacher, a small group of boys walked by and greeted us. "Hey, Mrs. C. Hey, Superteacher!" they called out.

She looked at me in astonishment. "What on earth did you do to get them to call you that?"

I shrugged. "Easy. I told them so." We had a good laugh, and it was all forgotten - until the next time it happened.

Fast forward six years to the other day. As I was talking with Opie and Calvin, I was asked the question that is the bane of my existence right now: "Why, Mommy?"

"Because, Calvin," I declared, placing my hands on my hips in my best Superman imitation, "I'm...SUPERMOMMY!"

He looked at me as if I were nuts. He may be right, but that's not the point.

"No, you're my mommy."

"I am your mommy, and I'm SUPERMOMMY!"

He thought about that for a second then patted me on the hand. "You be Supermommy, but I just call you 'Mommy,' okay?" Then he walked off to go play trains.

So much for my impressive super -ness. It occurred to me, however, that both of these situations are similar to our relationships with God.

You see, God is Yaweh - I AM THAT I AM. The all-powerful, all-knowing creator of the universe and all that is in it. We know this because for thousands of years he has told us so. God is God, and there is none like him. He has shown us his power and his wisdom in ways that we cannot even begin to innumerate. Every day I see his creativity in the faces of my children, and I recognize his scientific prowess in the way the world functions "all by itself." There is such comfort in knowing that Yaweh holds my world and my life in his omnipresent hands.

The flip side of the coin is that God is also Abba. In my life that translates to "Daddy." As a child of God - one who has accepted his gifts of love and mercy and grace - I have the right to call him my daddy. He is gentle and loving, but a firm taskmaster when I am veering off the right path. His correction is stern, but there is love covering it. I am never out of his care. He rejoices when I rejoice. He comforts me when I hurt. He is delighted by me, and I delight in him. He wants me to spend time with him. And just like my earthly daddy, my spiritual daddy shows me his love every day in very personal ways. That makes me feel secure in a quiet, intimate way.

Yaweh and Abba. Supreme Creator and personal father. Supermommy and just plain mommy. To borrow Calvin's thought, God is God, but I call him Daddy. And that's just the way we like it.

Time Out...

2006-07-04T10:27:00.000-05:00

I don't remember the first time I heard the phrase "time out" in reference to a method of discipline. When I was a kid, it was "sit in the corner" or "go to your room" or some variation of those. I spent some time in both those places, learning self-control and manners. Then one day I heard someone tell their child "I'm going to put you in time out." This struck me as an odd statement. "Time out" was for strategizing in sports. So I began to observe parents and children and this phenomenon of "time out."

It wasn't long before I realized that it was often badly used by some - like any discipline technique can be - and quite effective for others. Temperament played a role in that equation: some children are more responsive to time outs than others. But I often thought it was a cop-out by a parent who didn't have the guts to discipline correctly.

Then I had children.

I began to realize that time outs were effective. Not so much for the kids, although there are times that it works, but more so for the parent. It keeps you from going all Cruella DeVille on your children. Well, maybe not you, but definitely me.

I find myself placing me in time out as much as I do my kids. I don't go sit in a corner or vocalize the fact that I'm there, but I often go into a mental time out just to maintain some semblence of self-control. Otherwise, I become a raging banshee, shrieking and flying about erratically and scaring the cats. My children just look at me as if to say yep, she's lost it...again.

It really hit me one terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day as I was screeching at Opie for hitting his brother, and I yelled, "you have got to learn some self-control!" I suddenly went silent. Opie, in his typical manner, looked at me after several seconds and said, "Don't you have more yelling to do?" Crickets...

I gathered him up into my arms as my heart was pierced with my own hypocrisy. Where did I expect my five-year-old son to learn self-control? At that moment it certainly wasn't from me. I asked him to forgive me for my own lack of self-control, and then together we prayed for God's help in controlling our tempers.

Sometimes God puts us in time out. We often face trials that are the consequences of our own actions. Maybe it's a physical time out when we've been unwise in our lifestyle habits (like overeating or smoking), maybe it's a financial time out when we've made bad money decisions, and sometimes it's a spiritual time out because of sin in our life or an unwillingness to submit to His will. God says, "I think you need to wait a while and think about what you've done." He always loves us, but He wants us to be aware of our mistakes, and ask Him for guidance and strength.

After I began to institute "mommy time outs" I saw a difference in the way I treated my children and in the way they treated each other. I wish I could say that I don't need them very often, but I do. Sometimes, I have to have a time out at the same time as my boys, but that's okay. I'm learning to control myself, and my sons are learning that not everything is easy. They know I struggle with it sometimes, and they know that with prayer and discipline, I can win. That means they can, too, and that makes time outs worth it all.

Gold Dust

2006-07-01T23:49:00.000-05:00

For the last several years, I have volunteered at a local fireworks stand owned by a church member. He donates what he would have paid me (and the other volunteers) to our church building fund. It's a fun way for me to get out and meet people while giving back to our church. I really enjoy the few hours I spend there, in large part because I LOVE fireworks. I always have. The fourth of July has always been a favorite holiday of mine primarily because of the fireworks. Blues and reds and greens and golds, willows, comets, starbursts, silverfish, rockets and sparks showers are all the stuff of a great holiday celebration. Booms, thuds, whistles, screams, pops, oohs and aahs are the sounds that I love.

Perhaps I'm a bit biased. The first time my husband ever kissed me was on the fourth of July. As his lips touched mine, someone shot off fireworks. I opened my eyes, saw sparks in the sky and knew that he was the one. I really love fireworks.

But tonight I saw something that I've never noticed before. Gold dust. Let me explain...

When Opie was about eighteen months old he became fascinated with trains. Not just any trains, mind you, but Thomas the Tank Engine. He quickly became obsessed with all things Thomas, and we became the proud owners of a dozen Thomas and Friends videos (the number has grown significantly over the years, and with the advent of Calvin). One of the videos is a "live action" movie called Thomas and the Magic Railroad. Thomas lives on an island called Sodor, and the only way to get to Sodor is either the magic railway or with gold dust, which magically transports you on the magic railway without an engine. In this movie, the gold dust supply is direly low, and the magic engine has disappeared. The mystery must be solved and the gold dust supply replenished or the magic railroad will disappear forever. Of course all these problems are solved with the discovery of Lady the Magic Engine. When her magic shavings are mixed with water and tossed into the air, a shower of sparkly golden dust sprinkles down around the trains and people, ensuring the future of Sodor and the happiness of its inhabitants. We have probably watched this movie 200 times in the last 5 years (come to think of it, that's a really conservative number). It's imbedded in my subconscious.

As we watched the fireworks show tonight, I was watching with a clinical eye, making notes on the different brands so that I could effectively sell them to our customers. I checked my list for the next cake (what they call a large single fuse, multi-shot firework pack) and read the description: golden comets with white crackle bursting into golden willows. "Hmmm," I thought. " Sounds kind of boring." Then I heard the pop and looked up, and my clinical eye disappeared. It was gold dust! My heart suddenly felt light, and I felt the corners of my mouth curl up into a smile. "Gold dust!" I cried, echoing the exclamation from the movie. I was amazed at how carefree I felt at that moment. I was a small child again, experiencing the magic that fireworks inspire.

When I got home, I went to kiss my boys good night. Calvin began telling me that Daddy had taken them to the fireworks. "And I saw the gold dust," he said excitedly. "It was real gold dust, mommy!" I had to smile because I had seen the gold dust, too, and even knowing the physics and chemistry behind it didn't change what Calvin and I knew. Sometimes gold dust is real. And sometimes magic happens in everyday life.

Marriage

2006-06-28T22:11:00.000-05:00

Forty years ago on a summer night my parents were married. Times were different then. In Missouri, a man had to be twenty-one to marry without parental consent, so my father had to have his father sign for him. My mother, being older and more mature (by a whole four months), was legal. So on July 1, 1966, a young woman walked down the aisle toward a young man, and after he sang to her, they became husband and wife.

A lot has happened in forty years. Moves, different cities, different countries, a child (that would be me), grandchildren, loss of beloved family members, medical scares, tough times, good times, laughter, but most of all, love. Not the romantic "hearts-and-flowers" kind of love - although there's been some of that - but the real deal. The "for-better-or-worse" kind. They have been richer and poorer. There has been sickness and there has been health. But most importantly, they live the words "'til death do us part."

I learned what a marriage should be by watching my parents. A lot of my friends can not share that sentiment, but I am so very blessed to have parents that have always loved each other. I have never seen my parents fight. They have disagreed on occasion, but they have never fought like so many couples do. I asked my mother about it as I was preparing for marriage. It didn't seem normal. Surely I had missed something, although in a house as small as ours it didn't seem likely. Her response was simple and matter-of-fact. They didn't fight because they chose not to. Somehow along the way they both realized that it takes two to fight, and they never let it happen. Now that doesn't mean that there weren't times that they could have fought. Those were probably plentiful. It means they chose to take the high road. I wish I could say I learned that, but it's taken a while, and sometimes I still find myself in the mud.

My parents have always guarded their hearts. They understand that a marriage is like a sparrow. It is strong, able to soar and fly at high speeds in great winds. It can also be crushed by a careless hand whose owner fails to recognize the fragility of its small body. A marriage can be incredibly strong in the face of adversity and trials. A couple can pull together and weather the storms of life as a team, making them look invincible. But that same couple can be destroyed by a careless action or comment. Momma and Daddy have put their faith in God first, and then in each other. They have clung to each other through the good times and the bad, and always made it a point to keep their eyes focused on their spouse. Their hearts are safe with each other. They are each other's best friend.

I learned that people can be different and have different interests yet still have a life together. I always get tickled when they make plans to go to the movies. Daddy likes guy movies that pass the "Harvey test." Our friend, Harvey, rates his movies based on three things: explosions, car chases and gun/knife/hand to hand fights. If one of those things doesn't happen in the first five minutes, the movie flunks the Harvey test. Mom, on the other hand, likes girl movies. You know...hearts, flowers, tears, and in the end the guy always gets the girl. Rarely do these two types meet, yet my parents still go to the movies together, not because they like each other's movies, but because they like each other.

My parents still hold hands. There are few images in my memory that are as comforting to me as the picture of my parents' hands clasped. Generally, Daddy's hand is on top, gently covering Mom's in an almost protective gesture. I don't remember a time when that was not a constant picture in my life. Their hands look a little older now, but it just makes the image that much sweeter.

Probably the most important earthly lesson I have learned from my parents, however, is this: I was not their top priority. That may sound harsh, but truthfully it is the lesson I need most today. My parents' priorities have always been God first, each other second, me third, and then everything else. I have always known I was loved, but I have also always known that one day I would leave home, and that when I did, my parents would not be strangers. They have taken time to be together, to continue to know each other, and to be each other's best friend. They have worked at it. They are each other's priority, and they taught me that if my marriage was to be successful, especially once my own children were born, my husband had to take precedence over my children.

When I think of the many blessings that God has given me, I realize that my parents were the first. Not only are they wonderful people in their own right, but they are a wonderful couple. Congratulations, Momma and Daddy, and may God bless you with forty more years together.

Being schooled

2006-06-21T00:37:00.000-05:00

I was called on the carpet by my three-year-old. The thing that makes this unusual is that in this case, it was deserved.

Sundays are always interesting at our house. We drop our boys off for Sunday School, and we never know what "entertaining" anecdotes (some might call them reports) we are going to receive when we pick them up. This Sunday was no different. "Calvin was really good today," the teacher reported. As I opened my mouth to praise him (or perhaps it was just falling open in shock), she continued. "...except for one little thing." (You know when they say that, it's never really little.) "He climbed in the kiddie car, then yelled out 'stupid idiot' while he pretended he was in charge." Hmmm.....

Now let me digress for a moment. At our house we are not of the persuasion that "stupid" is a bad word. It's often not appropriate for use, especially when being hurled at someone else, but we do not call it a "bad" word. That phrase is reserved for more colorful language that unfortunately can be found in animated "children's" movies...that's a completely different blog...don't get me started. "Idiot" is also not slung around in our home. In our car, however, is a different story. That happens to be one of the favored words hurled at other drivers when they refuse to follow Gina's Rules of Fair Roadmanship. "Moron" follows as a close second. These words are not uttered with great frequency, but over time, much like malaria, their impact builds up. Back to the story....

On the way to lunch at Gramma's house we discussed that "stupid idiot" is not a bad word, but that it is inappropriate to use it, especially if we are talking to someone else; that we should speak kindly to others, with respect. (In case you're wondering - yes, my 3-year-old does know what inappropriate means...we've had other discussions before!) Little did I know that it would come back to haunt me that evening.

Fast forward to dinner. We often go out after church with a large group of friends, including my parents. While trying to corral my darling boys, I became exasperated. After watching Opie and Calvin fighting over a small bag of Sysco croutons, I sent my oldest son back to the basket for a second bag. Under my breath (or so I thought), I muttered something that -while not "bad"- was not particularly kind. Make no mistake, I think the world of my boys, and I love them dearly, but I am most assuredly human, and my frustration got the upper hand over my self-control for a moment. Calvin looked across the table at me and said "what did you say, Mommy?"

I was stricken. I was embarrassed. "That wasn't kind, Mommy. Not 'propriate." Oh my. I had just been schooled by my 3-year-old. The worst part is that he was right. It wasn't kind. It wasn't appropriate. And it was exactly what I had fussed at him for just hours before. In front of my parents and my friends, I had to look my son in the eye and say, "You're absolutely right. It wasn't, and Mommy shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry."

He grinned at me in his irrepressible way. "It's okay, Mommy. I f'rgive you." And just like that it was over for him. The croutons came back to the table, and he went on harrassing his brother until I took them home.

But it's not over for me. The incident is done, but the lesson is strong and sobering. How many of the things for which I have corrected them am I guilty? How often do I chide them for lessons they learned from me? Are the things they do over which I lose my cool the very same things they see in me?

It reminds me that it is imperative that I spend time with God every day. I hate to admit that I often fall short in this area. But if I am going to parent my sons to the best of my ability, I must rely on an ability that is greater than my own. My everyday relationship with my Abba father is critical to my everyday relationship with my children. When I short myself on time with God, I am often short with my boys. But when I dive into His word, when I soak in the richness that time in prayer can bring, my day is brighter, my patience longer, and my attitude sweeter. Only then can I capably model the behaviors and attitudes to which I desperately want my children to aspire.

Calvin doesn't realize that he taught me a lesson Sunday. But God made sure that it was one I would never forget.

Daddy...

2006-06-17T21:54:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is Father's Day. Father's Day has always been special to me because I am blessed to have an amazing dad. By the way, he's never been "Dad." He's always been Daddy. Even now that I'm in my....now that I'm older, he is still Daddy.

My dad is a minister and has been my whole life. First as a youth minister, then a music minister, then a pastor, he has spent his life giving to others. He has counseled those with problems, he has visited those who are sick and dying, he has comforted those who are in great grief over the passing of a loved one, he has driven to doctors appointments with those who would otherwise have been unable to get there. He's really good at giving to others.

I used to resent this quality in my dad. "You love them more than you love me," I would (melo)dramatically cry, usually when his ministry encroached on what I thought should have been my time (which was pretty much always when I was a kid...only children sometimes get possessive that way). I would pout and huff - albeit understatedly since huffing and such was grounds for a good long talk on respect - and feel quite put upon. After all, he was MY daddy, not theirs. Then one day I realized that some of the teenagers he worked with didn't have dads like mine. Their dads weren't around, either physically or emotionally, and they needed a daddy. So I (grudgingly) decided to share mine, as long I got the lion's share of the attention. And I usually did.

As I grew older, I realized that my desire to help others was a direct result of my dad's ministry. It was one of the many lessons that I have learned over the years. Not all of them are that deep.

-I learned that baseball is more than the national pasttime; it was OUR pasttime.
-I learned the difference between a stock car and a funny car.
-I learned how to drive with one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the hamburger.
-I learned how to use power tools (quite proficiently, may I add).
-I learned how to make a great basting sauce for meat.
-I learned how to forward the VCR just enough to get through the commercials and back to the show.

-I also learned that not all fathers and daughters have tumultuous and highly dramatic relationships.
-I learned how I wanted to be treated by the men who would come into my life.
-I learned to expect more from myself than others would, thereby exceeding their expectations while never getting too proud of myself.
-I learned that blessings come from doing for others, even when the blessings don't come from them.
-I learned that even when I was too big to sit on Daddy's lap, it was still there when my heart was breaking and I just needed to feel safe.
-I learned how to be a good teacher...be willing to learn from your students and get your bluff in early.
-I learned being a good parent didn't mean always being right. Sometimes it means being willing to be wrong because you care so much but always bathing everything in prayer.

Now I have a husband and children of my own. I watch my husband as he fathers our boys, and I see the same strengths in him that I see in my Daddy. He is loving, strong, willing to find the teachable moments that come along and utilize them, and he understands the importance of a good snuggle. He is a great daddy. I am proud of him and proud to be by his side. I am his wife.

But I'm still Daddy's girl. Happy Father's Day.

Starberries and Cameloupe

2006-06-16T18:44:00.000-05:00

If you polled a thousand mothers and fathers, they would doubtless have stories about their children's voyage into speech. Even before birth we are inundated with words, words, words. In our journey to verbal proficiency, we stumble over words for which we aren't ready, and we create new words in our search for the right ones. Unfortunately, the right ones are rarely as entertaining as our original versions.

Our youngest son (let's call him Calvin...if you ever read Calvin & Hobbes you've got a great picture of him) loves fruit. His favorites are "starberries" and "cameloupe." The first time Calvin said these words, the joyous laughter bubbled up out of me. I love "learning words" - those wonderful, magical, personal vernaculars that children create. Every time he asks for starberries or cameloupe, I get the warm fuzzies. I also get the mental pictures of red, star-shaped berries and peach colored dromedaries.

Opie, our oldest son, called his favorite breakfast food "pannycakes." I loved when he would ask for them. I miss it now that he's older, and I hate that someone finally corrected him and made him self-conscious enough that he decided to say it "the right way." When pannycakes went by the wayside, so did a very small part of his innocence.

For now, Calvin still loves starberries and cameloupes...and pannycakes are some of his favorites, too. When he, too, grows too old and instead just wants plain old strawberries and cantaloupes, I'll tuck those magical fruits away in the special box of my memories, along with the fading tunes of lullabies and the words of Good Night, Moon. And as my boys march toward adulthood, I'll treasure my pannycakes, starberries and cameloupes. It might even make a good breakfast!

Redirection and Love Taps

2006-06-15T22:45:00.000-05:00

Tonight I sat and watched my oldest son, let's call him "Opie," in his taekwondo class. He is a blue belt, and his favorite part of taekwondo is (of course) sparring. For those of you who have never experienced this phenomenon, it is when my 6-year-old son puts on red "plasti-foam" gear, an athletic supporter (his favorite piece of the gear...go figure), and a mouthpiece, then proceeds to beat and kick the snot out of whomever he is paired with to spar. On some unfortunate occasions, he gets the snot beat out of him.

As a mom, I didn't enjoy watching it at first. I've never been one of those moms who didn't want her precious baby to do anything that might hurt him - like walking down the street. But I was a little concerned that he would get hurt, or worse, hurt someone else. Now whenever the red pads go on, it's like a red cape to a bull. The blood lust rises. I become this...person, this oddity of nature that encourages all the things I said I never would. "Hit him," I think. "Kick high. He's not blocking his head." "It doesn't matter that it's a girl. Do it anyway." I don't recognize this woman. She freaks me out a little bit. Luckily, my mother raised me well enough that I don't yell out the thoughts...I just mutter them under my breath.

Mr. M, our taekwondo master, began tonight's class with a discussion on blocking. Let me explain Mr. M's discussions. They usually involve a "hands on" element...meaning he lays hands on them in example of the technique he is trying to teach. "When someone does this," he says as he begins to throw punches at their heads, "what do you do?" Now understand, he doesn't hurt them, but these are not gentle taps. I would probably call them "cuffs." It gets the students attention. Instinctively, the kids want to cower, to cover their faces with their hands. This is absolutely the wrong response, especially at the blue belt level. He wants them to block the punches.

"What is a block?" he asks repeatedly. No-one is able to answer correctly. So he patiently helps them out. "A block is a redirection. You have a punch coming at you, you don't want to get hit, so you redirect their arm or their leg away from your body." I can see the lights going on in several faces...oh! they think. THAT'S how I'm supposed to do it. And suddenly, all the boys and girls in the class aren't just throwing their hands up in front of their faces, they realize the purpose for the position and the motion. Come on, all you children of the 80's, say it with me...Wax On, Wax Off.

God teaches us redirection, too. In Ephesians 6, Paul talks about the armor of God. His biggest message is "Be prepared. Have all the weapons God wants to give you in your arsenal, so that when Satan throws his worst at you in a myriad of ways, you are able to stand." Just like Opie's sparring classes, our Master teaches us the moves we need to fend off our opponent. Prayer, Bible study, meditation on Godly things, avoiding those temptations that we know are too much for us to bear alone, accountability to someone else, regular attendance at church - all these things can be found in our spiritual "gear bag." However, they do us no good if we choose not to arm ourselves with our gear. Headgear can't protect Opie if he doesn't put it on. And make no mistake - our opponent never shows up unprepared. How much more victorious could we be in our spiritual lives if we would just show up with all our gear?

I realized something else tonight as another mom expressed concern with Mr. M's methods. "He is so rough with them," she said. "He doesn't cut them any slack." When she said that, it occurred to me that everytime Mr. M "taps" a student, it truly is a love tap. He doesn't cut them slack because their opponent won't when it comes time for competition. It's called "sparring" for a reason. Mr. M gives them something to overcome, recognizing that without some struggle, there can be no sense of victory. He loves his students enough to be hard on them, making them better and more prepared for what will come their way. At the same time, he is loving and full of encouragement as they clumsily begin making the motions that will eventually become second nature. He cheers them on, reminding them that they can do it.

God does that, too. Sometimes we look at the struggles in our lives, especially when they come one right after the other. We cry out to God, wanting to know why it's this way. But sometimes our struggles are God's love taps. He gives us something to overcome, making way for a victory in our lives - one for which we can ultimately praise Him. And as we clumsily begin to take the right steps, He is there, cheering us on and telling "well done, child. Well done!"

Sufficient grace....

2006-06-12T22:37:00.000-05:00

Grace is a tricky thing. God's promise is that his grace will be sufficient in our time of need. When we aren't in our time of need, it's hard to understand that concept. How can something be there when I need it if I can't find it before hand? Bear with me...

This past weekend was the national weekend of Alex's Lemonade Stand (http://www.alexslemonade.com/). This fundraiser benefits childhood cancer research. In our town alone, over $10,000 was raised by one lemonade stand. It was done in memory of Max Kimball. Max was a student at the school where I taught. His bright smile and his eternally optimistic outlook were a joy and an inspiration to all who had any sort of contact with him. When Max died, the impact reverberated through our small school. But this weekend - in his memory - a small dent was made in the fight for a cure.

At the same time this was happening, two families lost their precious sons to cancer. Will, a 3-year-old from Kentucky, and Jacob, a 6-year-old from Florida, both passed away yesterday. This hits really close to home, and my heart ached tonight for those parents as I read bedtime stories and gave "things" (hugs and kisses) to my own 6- and 3-year-olds. As I stroked their hair and said good night prayers, my tears threatened to fall. It is a fear that I think all parents feel when they hear these stories. It made me want to hold them tighter for just a few minutes more. It made me thank God that my boys are healthy, and remind myself that I am still commanded to praise and thank God even if they one day aren't.

God is a god of healing...Jehovah Rapha. I know in my heart that Jacob and Will and Max and all the other children who are now at the feet of Jesus have experienced ultimate healing...a healing that most of us who live long lives will never fully know. Bro. Joe (our co-pastor) told a story recently about a friend of his who cradled his infant son as the baby passed from life. Bro. Joe experienced the fear of losing a child when his son was critically ill at birth (Kyle is now a strapping 6 year-old). Joe's friend said that he felt like God had spared his son just as surely as He had spared Kyle, for his son would never go through the pain that life can bring. That to me is a comfort born out of a grace that most people will never experience...the sufficient grace that God gives only when it is most desperately needed.

Grace doesn't only come when death arrives at the door. God also gives everyday grace...to get through the tough conversations with the boss, to prevent us from throttling our child when he or she is on our very last thread of a nerve, to bite our tongue when someone's attitude encroaches on ours, or to weather a hurtful situation that is truly beyond our control. God's grace reminds us that God really is in control and carefully watching each moment of our lives. We may be out of control, the circumstances may be out of control, but God never is.

Most of my entries won't be this solemn. It seems as though in the last month, beginning with the passing of AJ's mom (my mother-in-law), death has been a more constant presence in my ken, and especially today it weighs heavy on my heart. I know, however, that God's sufficient and extravagant grace will carry me through.