So . . . . ice bucket gallore . . . .filling up my newsfeed. (AHEM!!!!!) I am a desperate SAHM who needs to be entertained a tad more than to watch everybody (literally) and their brother, father, sister, and mother . . . .AND NOW CHILDREN????!!!!!!! dump semi icy water over their head. In the name of bringing awareness to a disease.
I'm going to guess that this post will cause some mixed emotions. So be it.
1) I am aware of ALS
2) It is a horrible disease and way to die
3) I watched a family friend fade
4) I truly feel awful that humans die this way and that family members and friends can only watch helplessly
5) I am not passionate about this disease
6) I will not be doing the ice bucket challenge
7) And I don't feel guilty for feeling this way
I can feel empathetic, but that doesn't mean that I need to feel guilted into doing some sort of silly stunt just to let the world know that "I'm a good person".
In the privacy of our own home, where the world can't see - besides Big Brother - Big D and I are bombarded with hurts of this world. Sorrows, misfortunes, turmoils, wrongs - all results of sin. So much illness and disease. So much death, in horrible ways. So much struggle just to survive. And in our privacy, we open our hearts to hear what God has to say to OUR FAMILY, personally. Where does he want us to quietly give. Doesn't he tell us to not let the right hand know what the left hand does? (I think - somewhere)(Yup, Matthew 6:3)
....................................................................................................................................................
Honestly, I'm kind of disgusted. All this outrage over ALS. But what about so many other things. Why is nobody vomiting all over my newsfeed in the name of abortion? Or the ISIS crisis? Or sex trafficking? Or child pornography? Or orphans? Or a million other things that are plaguing our society and world. Are those things too big? Or too far away from OUR world? We can't touch them personally, so we jump on the ALS bandwagon because our friend's dad's cousin died 11 years ago.
I'm not trying to make fun of this, I'm just completely wondering why? Why ALS? And why did the world literally ALL decide at once that THAT was a good thing to do?
And who's sending the money? If you read what most people write - dump ice water over your head in 24 hours OR get penalized and send $100 to ALS. Is there some sort of ALS ice bucket police out there? And is the money being sent, guilt money? Who wants guilt money?
The whole thing is bizarre and makes me shake my head. Those who feel passionate about this disease are already doing what they feel is right according to their heart. Donating anyway. Supporting in the ways they can, anyway.
But telling everybody to feel the same way, and do the same thing - because facebook told me too . . . . . . . .
I think the world would be a much better place if we just did what Jesus told us to. And that being - love our neighbor as our self. If we all looked inside our inner-souls, and listened to what spoke to our hearts - and then gave in whatever way we could to THAT - wouldn't it be a much grander thing? The whole world would be touched in someway. Because we all are different. With different thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas, convictions. Our hearts are all pulled differently.
Why can't we be heart-lead? Instead of facebook lead.
And on a sidenote, I kinda liked this article regarding the whole thing.
Showing posts with label Jesus Follower. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jesus Follower. Show all posts
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 6
I woke up the next morning. Ned was a memory. He was completely gone.
I'm a light sleeper. The bathroom is inches from my bedroom. Nobody flushes the toilet in the middle of night.
I think Jesus scooped Ned up for me. He took him home. And left me to heal. To feel. To believe in goodness and hurt and grace. He left me with a hole in my heart, and said, "for me. What will you do with this, for me?"
You see, God doesn't promise blissfulness. Or loveliness. Perfectness. Great life - if we choose to love him. No, instead he promises to never leave our side. To bring joy in the morning after a night of wretchedness. Strength, when we feel we can't. A second more. And grace. Oh, so much grace.
I hid from the world. And told no one of my empty hole. Business as usual, for what needed to be done. Work, etc.
I have a vivid memory of being out in town with Queen Bee and Murnice. We wanted to go to an upscaley boutique. I needed to use the restroom, as I was still bleeding quite a bit. My mental state was so raw. And the horrific-ness of how I was treated because I needed to use the restroom would have brought poop-flies to a standstill. The lady who brought me to the bathroom had to stand right outside the door. And Murnice asks why there is blood.
That my dear, are the remnants of your brother, who is no longer.
I hid for months. And stalked everybody on facebook in my darkened house. Looking into their scar-free lives. Feeling every moment. Allowing every bit of mourning to surge through. Allowing myself to feel what needed to be felt. I did not give myself a timeline. Or beat myself up for still feeling so sad, months beyond. I just remember opening my heart, and wallowing.
....................................................................
The next couple of things that happened, I do not remember the order. But in my mind, they happened close in time.
Up to this point, we had been trying to conceive for 3 years... . . . .
There was this guy at church, who for some reason was drawn to Big D and myself. He always made a point to say hi - but it never went any farther than that. We always thought it was a little strange, but there's nothing you can do about strange-ness. One Sunday we must have looked exceptionally down, and it came out that we were struggling with infertility and losing babies. And he looked at Murnice and said, "she's not your last one." And then he ran away.
(update: within the last year, we have started to build a relationship with him and his wife. And that whole conversation came up. He was horrified that that came slipping out of his mouth 4 years earlier. I told him the power those words held. So much hope.)
..........................................................
I was driving by myself one Sunday, praying my mamsy-pamsy prayer (I'll get to that later) and Jesus reached down into my car, slapped my little cheeks, and said, "Foxy, what do you want?"
HOT DAMN, I WANT A DADGUM, REAL-LIVING BABY, THAT I PUSHED OUT OF MY OWN ALREADY TRAIN-WRECKED VAGINA. THAT'S WHAT I WANT.
And that was the first time that I had ever uttered those words. The first time that I was real with myself and with God. Real, with not feeling unworthy of having a desire. Real, with screaming from the rooftops what my selfish wants were.
You see, for 3 years we prayed like this: Dear Jesus, we are so grateful for Murnice. Healthy, wonderful Murnice. But we would love to have another baby if it's your will. Because we want your will. And we recognize that you see all and know all, and maybe another baby just isn't in the cards for us. And if that's the case, just give our hearts a peace and take away this desire for more babies. Above all, we want what you want.
Which is fine and great. But we were totally missing the point, that Jesus wants us to be real with him. To share our desires, as silly or earthly or spiritual, he wants us to give him details. Nitty-grits. Just because he loves us that much. He wants to shatter our earth-ridden minds with extravagance. Just as any lover would desire to do. He wants to know us intimately. And intimacy comes with details.
So we changed our prayer. We asked for a baby. Send us a baby. Not, "if it's your will". Or, "if you deem it appropriate". Just plain and simple, give. us. a. baby.
The end.
I'm a light sleeper. The bathroom is inches from my bedroom. Nobody flushes the toilet in the middle of night.
I think Jesus scooped Ned up for me. He took him home. And left me to heal. To feel. To believe in goodness and hurt and grace. He left me with a hole in my heart, and said, "for me. What will you do with this, for me?"
You see, God doesn't promise blissfulness. Or loveliness. Perfectness. Great life - if we choose to love him. No, instead he promises to never leave our side. To bring joy in the morning after a night of wretchedness. Strength, when we feel we can't. A second more. And grace. Oh, so much grace.
I hid from the world. And told no one of my empty hole. Business as usual, for what needed to be done. Work, etc.
I have a vivid memory of being out in town with Queen Bee and Murnice. We wanted to go to an upscaley boutique. I needed to use the restroom, as I was still bleeding quite a bit. My mental state was so raw. And the horrific-ness of how I was treated because I needed to use the restroom would have brought poop-flies to a standstill. The lady who brought me to the bathroom had to stand right outside the door. And Murnice asks why there is blood.
That my dear, are the remnants of your brother, who is no longer.
I hid for months. And stalked everybody on facebook in my darkened house. Looking into their scar-free lives. Feeling every moment. Allowing every bit of mourning to surge through. Allowing myself to feel what needed to be felt. I did not give myself a timeline. Or beat myself up for still feeling so sad, months beyond. I just remember opening my heart, and wallowing.
....................................................................
The next couple of things that happened, I do not remember the order. But in my mind, they happened close in time.
Up to this point, we had been trying to conceive for 3 years... . . . .
There was this guy at church, who for some reason was drawn to Big D and myself. He always made a point to say hi - but it never went any farther than that. We always thought it was a little strange, but there's nothing you can do about strange-ness. One Sunday we must have looked exceptionally down, and it came out that we were struggling with infertility and losing babies. And he looked at Murnice and said, "she's not your last one." And then he ran away.
(update: within the last year, we have started to build a relationship with him and his wife. And that whole conversation came up. He was horrified that that came slipping out of his mouth 4 years earlier. I told him the power those words held. So much hope.)
..........................................................
I was driving by myself one Sunday, praying my mamsy-pamsy prayer (I'll get to that later) and Jesus reached down into my car, slapped my little cheeks, and said, "Foxy, what do you want?"
HOT DAMN, I WANT A DADGUM, REAL-LIVING BABY, THAT I PUSHED OUT OF MY OWN ALREADY TRAIN-WRECKED VAGINA. THAT'S WHAT I WANT.
And that was the first time that I had ever uttered those words. The first time that I was real with myself and with God. Real, with not feeling unworthy of having a desire. Real, with screaming from the rooftops what my selfish wants were.
You see, for 3 years we prayed like this: Dear Jesus, we are so grateful for Murnice. Healthy, wonderful Murnice. But we would love to have another baby if it's your will. Because we want your will. And we recognize that you see all and know all, and maybe another baby just isn't in the cards for us. And if that's the case, just give our hearts a peace and take away this desire for more babies. Above all, we want what you want.
Which is fine and great. But we were totally missing the point, that Jesus wants us to be real with him. To share our desires, as silly or earthly or spiritual, he wants us to give him details. Nitty-grits. Just because he loves us that much. He wants to shatter our earth-ridden minds with extravagance. Just as any lover would desire to do. He wants to know us intimately. And intimacy comes with details.
So we changed our prayer. We asked for a baby. Send us a baby. Not, "if it's your will". Or, "if you deem it appropriate". Just plain and simple, give. us. a. baby.
The end.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Heart Secrets
I feel bruised. Utterly battered. And it's not my body. It's my heart. And it's radiating to, throughout the rest of me.
Something happened last night. Something different than other nights. Although similar things happen most nights.
Have you ever woken up from sleep, and have walked in on a conversation between your spirit and God? It's overwhelming just thinking about the magnitude. The power. The thought, of what that means. The comfort. That there is something bigger than just us. Than just flesh.
I never remember details in the morning. But I do remember having a holiness visited.
I knew something was going to happen last night. But I didn't expect to feel so war weary. And that's what it must have been. War. Spiritual war, over my heart.
My favorite author of all time is John Eldredge. He is able to speak to my darkest, the way no one can. God has used him to ravenously rip open heart wounds, and allow healing.
And so I read his words with trepidation. Slowly. Knowing more work is to come. And exhaustion.
He is known to use classic reads to illustrate points. Illustrate the beauty of God's heart. But it always catches off guard.
Bear with me as I share thee story that opens to my story. (It starts slow, but it ends in beauty)
And being very tired and having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks. What put a stop to all this was a sudden fright. Shasta discovered that someone or somebody was walking beside him. It was pitch dark and he could see nothing. And the the Thing (or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls. What he could hear was breathing. His invisible companion seemed to breathe on a very large scale . . . .
If the horse had been any good-or if he had known how to get any good out of the horse-he would have risked everything on a breakaway and a wild gallop. But he knew he couldn't make that horse gallop. So he went on at a walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him. At last he could bear it no longer. "Who are you?" he said, scarcely above a whisper.
"One who has waited long for you to speak," said the Thing. It's voice was not loud, but very large and deep . . .
"Oh please-please do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!" Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. "There," it said, "that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows." Shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.
"I do not call you unfortunate," said the Large Voice. "Don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?" said Shasta. "There was only one lion," said the Voice. "What on earth do you mean? I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and . . . " "There was only one; but he was swift of foot." "How do you know?"
"I was the lion."
And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. "I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."
"Then it was you who wounded Aravis?"
"It was I."
"But what for?"
"Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers."
(C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy) (Which I took from John Eldredge's Waking the Dead)
I read this as if it were a fairy tale. It's lovely. My heart felt an enlightening, as it does with any story that we are shown the greatness of the whole. . . . But that was it. Until John turned that story into our story.
He goes on to say that our life, is a story. Filled with twists and turns. Great moments. Horrific failures. Many firsts. And through all of these different experiences, our heart has "learned" something. Some truth. A lot is false rubbish that we cling too, and soon believe to be true.
He asks heart questions. "Is your heart good? Does your heart really matter? What has life taught you about that?"
I'm reading this with a quiet heart. Alert. The house is asleep. It's dark. And I'm primed to have my heart rummaged.
And then John says, "Imagine for a moment that God is walking softly beside you. You sense his presence, feel his warm breath. He says, 'Tell me your sorrows.'"
In the stillness, it was as if God took my weather-beaten, hardened hands in his and asked me what my sorrows were.
The simplicity and rawness of the question shook all around. And the hurted, angry, deeply-buried tears came so fast. Oh, to be asked that question.
But he wasn't done there. He wanted to know what I believed about my heart.
I didn't want to answer this question. And honestly, I couldn't think of anything. I thought naively that I must simply be wonderful, and have no beliefs about my heart.
And then it came. The ripping. Shredding. Of my innermost. A 31 year old secret that I haven't had words for. Felt, - yes.
Our most hurt, often starts with our family. Truth. Hard truth, but truth.
I don't know how to say the next part politically correct. So I'll say it, the way it is.
My heart was not seen, growing up. My innermost, God-created, was squashed. Disciplined. Re-directed. Ignored. Misinterpreted.
And that's what I believe most about my heart. That it's not seen. That it doesn't matter. And if anything, it's wrong. My heart is wrong. Even with the best intentions, I don't trust it.
What if I'm a self-made introvert? Because I believe that my heart isn't seen. So why bother? Why give it out? Every time I do, it's squashed. Rejected. Noses turn up. The weird glances. The appalled stares. Who wouldn't be driven to lead a loner life?
To have your deepest, darkest wound handed to you. The horror. The relief of truth. And the over-bearing burden of what to do next. With this knowledge.
John always says to invite God into our hurts. To reveal more, to bring healing. When we know truth, we know what we're up against. We know better how to protect, how to fight. How to pray.
I woke up many times last night to a spirit/God conversation. I woke up to thoughts and songs playing in my heart. None of it I can remember.
My entire chest is aching today. Not the inside, but the outside. As if I participated in highly strenuous activities. But I haven't. Because I sit on the couch.
There was war last night. And it was over my heart. And it was dirty and terrible. I know because I can feel the physical impact. The weight of evil fighting so hard, dragging it's claws through my chest. Fighting to hold on.
I know this is the beginning of this part of my heart healing. And with my healing history, it's years long. I'm in no rush. But I am looking forward to stepping out on the other side.
I do want to say, that I don't have resentment or hard feelings toward family members. It really is not there. As humans we do the best we can with what we know.
And thank the Lord, I'm done.
Something happened last night. Something different than other nights. Although similar things happen most nights.
Have you ever woken up from sleep, and have walked in on a conversation between your spirit and God? It's overwhelming just thinking about the magnitude. The power. The thought, of what that means. The comfort. That there is something bigger than just us. Than just flesh.
I never remember details in the morning. But I do remember having a holiness visited.
I knew something was going to happen last night. But I didn't expect to feel so war weary. And that's what it must have been. War. Spiritual war, over my heart.
My favorite author of all time is John Eldredge. He is able to speak to my darkest, the way no one can. God has used him to ravenously rip open heart wounds, and allow healing.
And so I read his words with trepidation. Slowly. Knowing more work is to come. And exhaustion.
He is known to use classic reads to illustrate points. Illustrate the beauty of God's heart. But it always catches off guard.
Bear with me as I share thee story that opens to my story. (It starts slow, but it ends in beauty)
And being very tired and having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks. What put a stop to all this was a sudden fright. Shasta discovered that someone or somebody was walking beside him. It was pitch dark and he could see nothing. And the the Thing (or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls. What he could hear was breathing. His invisible companion seemed to breathe on a very large scale . . . .
If the horse had been any good-or if he had known how to get any good out of the horse-he would have risked everything on a breakaway and a wild gallop. But he knew he couldn't make that horse gallop. So he went on at a walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him. At last he could bear it no longer. "Who are you?" he said, scarcely above a whisper.
"One who has waited long for you to speak," said the Thing. It's voice was not loud, but very large and deep . . .
"Oh please-please do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!" Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. "There," it said, "that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows." Shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.
"I do not call you unfortunate," said the Large Voice. "Don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?" said Shasta. "There was only one lion," said the Voice. "What on earth do you mean? I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and . . . " "There was only one; but he was swift of foot." "How do you know?"
"I was the lion."
And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. "I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."
"Then it was you who wounded Aravis?"
"It was I."
"But what for?"
"Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers."
(C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy) (Which I took from John Eldredge's Waking the Dead)
I read this as if it were a fairy tale. It's lovely. My heart felt an enlightening, as it does with any story that we are shown the greatness of the whole. . . . But that was it. Until John turned that story into our story.
He goes on to say that our life, is a story. Filled with twists and turns. Great moments. Horrific failures. Many firsts. And through all of these different experiences, our heart has "learned" something. Some truth. A lot is false rubbish that we cling too, and soon believe to be true.
He asks heart questions. "Is your heart good? Does your heart really matter? What has life taught you about that?"
I'm reading this with a quiet heart. Alert. The house is asleep. It's dark. And I'm primed to have my heart rummaged.
And then John says, "Imagine for a moment that God is walking softly beside you. You sense his presence, feel his warm breath. He says, 'Tell me your sorrows.'"
In the stillness, it was as if God took my weather-beaten, hardened hands in his and asked me what my sorrows were.
The simplicity and rawness of the question shook all around. And the hurted, angry, deeply-buried tears came so fast. Oh, to be asked that question.
But he wasn't done there. He wanted to know what I believed about my heart.
I didn't want to answer this question. And honestly, I couldn't think of anything. I thought naively that I must simply be wonderful, and have no beliefs about my heart.
And then it came. The ripping. Shredding. Of my innermost. A 31 year old secret that I haven't had words for. Felt, - yes.
Our most hurt, often starts with our family. Truth. Hard truth, but truth.
I don't know how to say the next part politically correct. So I'll say it, the way it is.
My heart was not seen, growing up. My innermost, God-created, was squashed. Disciplined. Re-directed. Ignored. Misinterpreted.
And that's what I believe most about my heart. That it's not seen. That it doesn't matter. And if anything, it's wrong. My heart is wrong. Even with the best intentions, I don't trust it.
What if I'm a self-made introvert? Because I believe that my heart isn't seen. So why bother? Why give it out? Every time I do, it's squashed. Rejected. Noses turn up. The weird glances. The appalled stares. Who wouldn't be driven to lead a loner life?
To have your deepest, darkest wound handed to you. The horror. The relief of truth. And the over-bearing burden of what to do next. With this knowledge.
John always says to invite God into our hurts. To reveal more, to bring healing. When we know truth, we know what we're up against. We know better how to protect, how to fight. How to pray.
I woke up many times last night to a spirit/God conversation. I woke up to thoughts and songs playing in my heart. None of it I can remember.
My entire chest is aching today. Not the inside, but the outside. As if I participated in highly strenuous activities. But I haven't. Because I sit on the couch.
There was war last night. And it was over my heart. And it was dirty and terrible. I know because I can feel the physical impact. The weight of evil fighting so hard, dragging it's claws through my chest. Fighting to hold on.
I know this is the beginning of this part of my heart healing. And with my healing history, it's years long. I'm in no rush. But I am looking forward to stepping out on the other side.
I do want to say, that I don't have resentment or hard feelings toward family members. It really is not there. As humans we do the best we can with what we know.
And thank the Lord, I'm done.
Monday, January 6, 2014
A Few Words from FoxyBigLittleBits
Don't wizzle in your pants - or anything. I know I've been slacking horrifically. And have had many tongue lashings by "those" who feel they are allowed to give tongue lashings. . . . . . But the holidays are so distracting. And I've been slumped on my couch. And it's hard to have anything interesting and of worth to say when you're slumped and distracted.
So this will be a boringesque-Christmasesque letter type of update.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving at Mother's is always hectic, frantic, and somewhat overwhelming. Loads of people. Mostly family. But there are always some guests whom I've never met before. I always wonder in those situations what "they've been told". Because you know they've been given the run-through of who is who and all that nonsense. I know this happens, because I do it.
Everybody is required to bring some food contribution. And that's always fun cooking on a stove that has 2 burners that work (the small ones) and a poor oven that's over worked and under paid.
This year we fed the kids first and then sent them to watch a movie. It was also the first year that both I and Big D ate in peace. Full peace. I don't think I'll ever forget that meal. (I'm definitely getting excited just thinking about all the gravy I ingested.)
At Mother's, there is no such thing as sitting-and-letting-your-meal-digest. No. It's straight to work. Mother promptly starting handing out "work cards". This is where she wrote down all the jobs that needed to be done, in order to clean up from dinner.
Now this brought me great pleasure. NOTHING gets me more excited to see some lazy bottom, sitting around and letting "others" clean up a mess, that THEY have contributed to. And I don't mean to sound too sexist right now . . . . but it's mostly the men folk who participate in this rudely behavior.
So Mother passes these cards out. Well actually, we got to pick our own card (blindly). Some people got off real easy. Wipe off counters. Others had more challenging tasks. Wash all the pots and pans.
The most glorious part - everybody had to participate. The most laziest of lazys, new and old.
Then the fliers come out (black friday). And everybody gets a little frantic, and the breathing gets heavy. And with all the heavy breathing - somebody gets hungry. And they pull out all the dessert. And I think, "so soon?"
And that's Thanksgiving.
Christmas
I did all of my shopping online, from my couch. It was the most perfect decision I've made in a long time.
Big D and I don't give each other anything. So many less emotions to deal with that way.
Although, I did buy Big D some beer soap. Because it makes me feel crazy thinking about the chemicals he smears around his body in the name of cleanliness. So I found some homemade manly soap. But chose to give it to him immediately, instead of waiting for Christmas morning. His rate of appropriate approval is greater if I just give it to him versus wrapping it up and making a big "special" deal about it. And it worked in my favor. He likes his beer soap. And feels like a dragon king smearing it all over his manly bits.
The kids open their gifts on Christmas eve. Which frees up Christmas day of tears and anxious hearts of not wanting to leave their new junk at home while we visit all of the hometown family.
Christmas day is not my favorite. Although I love the spirit and preparation of it. Music included.
Ed
Ed is starting to play by himself. Key word - starting. It really is a Christmas miracle. He still prefers to sit on top of me on the couch. He poops in the pot like a champ. He is also a lazy pee-er. Which means that he squirts 42 pee dribbles on whatever he's wearing BEFORE he decides he should use the restroom. He is still sleeping on our bedroom floor in his "nest". And he'll be there until he's 17. He sleeps soundly through all adult activity. (I sleep through all adult activity too) (Kidding) When he's mad at somebody or something - he will call them or it a "stupid beagle". Yup, too much Merry Christmas Charlie Brown. And I think it's hysterical. But I don't let him know. I am somewhat of a responsible mother.
Murnice
Don't really have a lot to say about Murn. Once they reach a certain age . . . . it's like . . . . .she's hates everything. And everything is a fight. . . . So, a few months ago, Murnice thought it was funny to scare Ed. On multiple occasions. Let the punishment fit the crime I say. (And it's a punishment that will last many years) She is now responsible to go with Ed anywhere and every time he's "scared". It's magical. She's is also learning the hard lesson of showing grace and a generous spirit. And thank the Lord, she is starting to love reading. (But I still have to force the reading time)
Couch
The stains never end. I had a Norwex party a little bit ago. And Couch got a scrubbing for the guests. She looked pretty for 1/2 the night. I've also decided that Couch smells musty and uninteresting. And somewhat disgraceful. So she'll be getting a flushout soon. In the meantime, she's still super sweet and inviting to me. And never judges.
Words Spoken by God
It's really easy for me to get wrapped up in other people's misfortune. And then I feel guilty. Guilty that I'm not going through something horrific or that I don't have any hardships right now in my life. So I was chatting with God about all of this - I can't remember in what context - but I remember just feeling guilty that I have such a pleasant life. And then God said to me, "don't feel guilty for the things that I've blessed you with."
God is not the God of guilt. Guilt does not come from God. He brings truth and understanding. And I'm really thankful for his permission to be glad in what he has given.
For those of you that don't struggle with all of that - stop judging this baby truth.
And that's all I'm going to write. And hopefully soon, I'll feel the need to have another episode of diarrhea of the mouth.
So this will be a boringesque-Christmasesque letter type of update.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving at Mother's is always hectic, frantic, and somewhat overwhelming. Loads of people. Mostly family. But there are always some guests whom I've never met before. I always wonder in those situations what "they've been told". Because you know they've been given the run-through of who is who and all that nonsense. I know this happens, because I do it.
Everybody is required to bring some food contribution. And that's always fun cooking on a stove that has 2 burners that work (the small ones) and a poor oven that's over worked and under paid.
This year we fed the kids first and then sent them to watch a movie. It was also the first year that both I and Big D ate in peace. Full peace. I don't think I'll ever forget that meal. (I'm definitely getting excited just thinking about all the gravy I ingested.)
At Mother's, there is no such thing as sitting-and-letting-your-meal-digest. No. It's straight to work. Mother promptly starting handing out "work cards". This is where she wrote down all the jobs that needed to be done, in order to clean up from dinner.
Now this brought me great pleasure. NOTHING gets me more excited to see some lazy bottom, sitting around and letting "others" clean up a mess, that THEY have contributed to. And I don't mean to sound too sexist right now . . . . but it's mostly the men folk who participate in this rudely behavior.
So Mother passes these cards out. Well actually, we got to pick our own card (blindly). Some people got off real easy. Wipe off counters. Others had more challenging tasks. Wash all the pots and pans.
The most glorious part - everybody had to participate. The most laziest of lazys, new and old.
Then the fliers come out (black friday). And everybody gets a little frantic, and the breathing gets heavy. And with all the heavy breathing - somebody gets hungry. And they pull out all the dessert. And I think, "so soon?"
And that's Thanksgiving.
Christmas
I did all of my shopping online, from my couch. It was the most perfect decision I've made in a long time.
Big D and I don't give each other anything. So many less emotions to deal with that way.
Although, I did buy Big D some beer soap. Because it makes me feel crazy thinking about the chemicals he smears around his body in the name of cleanliness. So I found some homemade manly soap. But chose to give it to him immediately, instead of waiting for Christmas morning. His rate of appropriate approval is greater if I just give it to him versus wrapping it up and making a big "special" deal about it. And it worked in my favor. He likes his beer soap. And feels like a dragon king smearing it all over his manly bits.
The kids open their gifts on Christmas eve. Which frees up Christmas day of tears and anxious hearts of not wanting to leave their new junk at home while we visit all of the hometown family.
Christmas day is not my favorite. Although I love the spirit and preparation of it. Music included.
Ed
Ed is starting to play by himself. Key word - starting. It really is a Christmas miracle. He still prefers to sit on top of me on the couch. He poops in the pot like a champ. He is also a lazy pee-er. Which means that he squirts 42 pee dribbles on whatever he's wearing BEFORE he decides he should use the restroom. He is still sleeping on our bedroom floor in his "nest". And he'll be there until he's 17. He sleeps soundly through all adult activity. (I sleep through all adult activity too) (Kidding) When he's mad at somebody or something - he will call them or it a "stupid beagle". Yup, too much Merry Christmas Charlie Brown. And I think it's hysterical. But I don't let him know. I am somewhat of a responsible mother.
Murnice
Don't really have a lot to say about Murn. Once they reach a certain age . . . . it's like . . . . .she's hates everything. And everything is a fight. . . . So, a few months ago, Murnice thought it was funny to scare Ed. On multiple occasions. Let the punishment fit the crime I say. (And it's a punishment that will last many years) She is now responsible to go with Ed anywhere and every time he's "scared". It's magical. She's is also learning the hard lesson of showing grace and a generous spirit. And thank the Lord, she is starting to love reading. (But I still have to force the reading time)
Couch
The stains never end. I had a Norwex party a little bit ago. And Couch got a scrubbing for the guests. She looked pretty for 1/2 the night. I've also decided that Couch smells musty and uninteresting. And somewhat disgraceful. So she'll be getting a flushout soon. In the meantime, she's still super sweet and inviting to me. And never judges.
Words Spoken by God
It's really easy for me to get wrapped up in other people's misfortune. And then I feel guilty. Guilty that I'm not going through something horrific or that I don't have any hardships right now in my life. So I was chatting with God about all of this - I can't remember in what context - but I remember just feeling guilty that I have such a pleasant life. And then God said to me, "don't feel guilty for the things that I've blessed you with."
God is not the God of guilt. Guilt does not come from God. He brings truth and understanding. And I'm really thankful for his permission to be glad in what he has given.
For those of you that don't struggle with all of that - stop judging this baby truth.
And that's all I'm going to write. And hopefully soon, I'll feel the need to have another episode of diarrhea of the mouth.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Survival, Holy?
A question was posed to us (the congregation) at church, yesterday. Actually two questions.
1) What gets you out of bed in the morning?
2) What is your mission or goal in life?
There were a bunch of holy answers. After all, we were in church. And people try hard to be, act, and talk "holy".
"Jesus gets me out of bed"
Oh that's nice. You must be special to have Jesus personally get you up every day.
There were a few funny answers.
"Bacon"
That's a little more realistic.
And then some honest answers.
"My job - so I can survive"
Yes. That makes sense.
But what about us moms. Us, who stay home. Every liver-chewing, nightmarish day. What about us?
Jesus getting me up sounds beyond perfect. And lovely. Gentle. And soft.
Bacon would be too good to be true. Somebody cooking me bacon every morning. The smell - wafting to my ever-filled booger nose. Fatty fat fat dripping. Crunchy crumbs. Oh, the pleasure.
Even a job to go to. A reason to take a shower and brush my hair. A reason to change my underwear. The feeling of accomplishing - something . . . Getting a paycheck? Just so it can go to bills. A reason to buy new lipstick.
Do you know what gets me up in the morning?
Ed. (Shall I elaborate more?)(Yes, I think I will.)
Ed telling me (with arm motions) that he has peed "all yover" the bathroom. Right after he had a panic attack because he couldn't get his pants off as fast as he wanted to.
Yup. Is there anything more purposeful than to get wrenched out of bed to clean up a piss-ridden bathroom so the rest of the family can use the morning john?
No. No there is not.
Which leads me to the next question.
What is your mission or goal in life?
Survival.
Purely and simply - survival. Survival for the family.
And nobody can understand that answer, unless they stay at home full time, with beautiful children.
And you know what gets me really excited? When Big D doesn't like my answer of "survival". He thinks it should be nothing short of inspirational and holy. He thinks he is challenging me in a healthy way - to open my mind, and shoot for the stars.
I say, shit-balls to that. (that's how excited I am)
You see, Big D - when you walk in the door, you see the exhaustion. You see the mess. And the lack of showers. You hear the gravel in my voice. The kids clamoring for fresh new attention that smiles at them. But what you don't see is the inner-turmoil of my heart. The true messyness of being at home. The emotional struggles. The lies and lies that he whispers. The same old same old same old. Fight and reproof, fight and correction. You see none of this. Because you don't live it. And you will never understand the darkness of it all - unless you live it.
So don't sit there and criticize my mission for life. Accept my "less-than-stellar" goal. And know that that's the truth.
Jesus loves my disgusting life. My dingy wallowing world. And through the maddening fog, he showers me with a glimmer of hope, a moment of peace, and says "this is exactly where you're supposed to be".
So I work on reading the millionth-time story with inflection, and answering the question with a gentle response. And know that I am doing my absolute best at surviving.
*****************************************************************************
disclaimer
Even though I use the name "Big D", I'm not only speaking to him. But to all that feel the need to criticize, critique, judge, wrinkle your nose, offer unsightly statements meant to encourage, or blatantly think more highly of yourself/your mothering skills.
****************************************************************************
disclaimer #2
I am not saying that my job is harder than those that work and have children.
Question of the day:
What is your mission or goal in life?
1) What gets you out of bed in the morning?
2) What is your mission or goal in life?
There were a bunch of holy answers. After all, we were in church. And people try hard to be, act, and talk "holy".
"Jesus gets me out of bed"
Oh that's nice. You must be special to have Jesus personally get you up every day.
There were a few funny answers.
"Bacon"
That's a little more realistic.
And then some honest answers.
"My job - so I can survive"
Yes. That makes sense.
But what about us moms. Us, who stay home. Every liver-chewing, nightmarish day. What about us?
Jesus getting me up sounds beyond perfect. And lovely. Gentle. And soft.
Bacon would be too good to be true. Somebody cooking me bacon every morning. The smell - wafting to my ever-filled booger nose. Fatty fat fat dripping. Crunchy crumbs. Oh, the pleasure.
Even a job to go to. A reason to take a shower and brush my hair. A reason to change my underwear. The feeling of accomplishing - something . . . Getting a paycheck? Just so it can go to bills. A reason to buy new lipstick.
Do you know what gets me up in the morning?
Ed. (Shall I elaborate more?)(Yes, I think I will.)
Ed telling me (with arm motions) that he has peed "all yover" the bathroom. Right after he had a panic attack because he couldn't get his pants off as fast as he wanted to.
Yup. Is there anything more purposeful than to get wrenched out of bed to clean up a piss-ridden bathroom so the rest of the family can use the morning john?
No. No there is not.
Which leads me to the next question.
What is your mission or goal in life?
Survival.
Purely and simply - survival. Survival for the family.
And nobody can understand that answer, unless they stay at home full time, with beautiful children.
And you know what gets me really excited? When Big D doesn't like my answer of "survival". He thinks it should be nothing short of inspirational and holy. He thinks he is challenging me in a healthy way - to open my mind, and shoot for the stars.
I say, shit-balls to that. (that's how excited I am)
You see, Big D - when you walk in the door, you see the exhaustion. You see the mess. And the lack of showers. You hear the gravel in my voice. The kids clamoring for fresh new attention that smiles at them. But what you don't see is the inner-turmoil of my heart. The true messyness of being at home. The emotional struggles. The lies and lies that he whispers. The same old same old same old. Fight and reproof, fight and correction. You see none of this. Because you don't live it. And you will never understand the darkness of it all - unless you live it.
So don't sit there and criticize my mission for life. Accept my "less-than-stellar" goal. And know that that's the truth.
Jesus loves my disgusting life. My dingy wallowing world. And through the maddening fog, he showers me with a glimmer of hope, a moment of peace, and says "this is exactly where you're supposed to be".
So I work on reading the millionth-time story with inflection, and answering the question with a gentle response. And know that I am doing my absolute best at surviving.
*****************************************************************************
disclaimer
Even though I use the name "Big D", I'm not only speaking to him. But to all that feel the need to criticize, critique, judge, wrinkle your nose, offer unsightly statements meant to encourage, or blatantly think more highly of yourself/your mothering skills.
****************************************************************************
disclaimer #2
I am not saying that my job is harder than those that work and have children.
Question of the day:
What is your mission or goal in life?
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Bigger is Better, But Wisdom is Best
I knew it was going to happen. Or at least I was prepared for when it did happen.
You see, one of my spiritual gifts happens to be intuition and discernment. It's a blessing and a curse. And maybe I'll talk more about that another time.
I became "aware" about two weeks ago. It was a Friday night. Friday Friend party night!!! . . . . . except I had a nervy feeling in my stomach about work the next morning. (I run a swim lesson program) I wasn't sure if I was just being a wench or my "feelings" were legit.
So I went exploring. And my mind's eye came up with a picture.
In my home town there's this really neat family. It's a pastor and his family. And a couple of years ago they adopted 3 teenagers from the Ukraine. Two of the kids come to swim lessons on Saturday, and one of those kids is a daredevil on the diving board. He's good. And fearless. All the makings you need to be a diver.
My mind picture was of this daredevil hitting the diving board with his head. He would need to be backboarded. And it was going to happen right at the end of swim lessons, when the whistle was blown.
I hated it. But I prayed over it. Asking God to please let that not happen. But if he did, to please cover me in wisdom, as I would be the one to be making the calls.
I prayed real hard. And I went over and over, in my head, the drill for backboarding a victim. And nothing happened that Saturday. And I breathed.
Fast forward to last night. Having moved on from my nervy feelings . . . . I wasn't thinking about diving board accidents anymore.
Tuesday night is homeschool swim. I bring Murnice and Ed for a lesson. Mother runs the program. Sometimes I lifeguard. Sometimes I teach a lesson. Last night I lifeguarded. Mother was playing with Ed in the shallow end while she chatted with me. The whistle blew to signal the end of class. And the divingboard made a horrific sound.
I looked up to see 3 adults rush to the divingboard. I knew somebody had hit it. And then saw that it had been B.B. Bobby. He was at the edge of the pool. Which was a good sign that he could move. I started yelling "DID HE HIT THE BOARD" as I ran down to the deep end.
After about the fifth time of asking the question, somebody finally said "yes, he split his head".
B.B.Bobby is out of the pool at this point, bent over, blooding running down his face. I take this all in as I grabbed the backboard and start ripping the velcro to shreds.
I'm yelling out commands, "CALL 911" and "HELP ME GET HIM ON THE BACKBOARD".
Immediately about 5 adults surrounded me and start yelling at me, "HOW DO WE HELP?"
This is funny to me. You know how in fast moving events, its blurred? So I wonder if what I was saying was actually making sense to bystanders? And then I wonder if I even answered their questions? Or if I just did it myself?
I remember throwing my hands up in the air at one point because I couldn't even get to all the straps because there were so many people surrounded him - supporting and gauzing and evaluating.
And then he was finally on the board, properly. Strapped. Immobilized. He was nauseous and dizzy. And then there's ice.
B.B.Bob was breathing and conscious. The ambulance was on their way. And then I realized, Ed was missing. I didn't see him anywhere in the mass of people. I yelled real loud. Three times. "WHERE'S MY SON".
And there he was. Wrapped in a towel, sitting. By Murnice. Guarded by the lovliest mom. She shared herself. Her time. While others took care of her children.
And then we waited.
I kept going over check lists in my head of what needed to be done. I not only needed to observe the happenings with B.B.Bobby, but there was paper work, and disinfecting, and kids that needed to be taken care of, and dazed parents that needed to be walked step by step through simple directions - such as how to get dressed, a pool to generally organize and lock up, cars and belongings to collect and be driven back to Mothers - since she was going on the ambulance ride, and organizing helpers to stand in the parking lot to direct the ambulance to the correct door. Since Father wasn't answering the phone he needed to be personally got, along with warm clothes and cell phones. And phone calls to later evening funs had to be cancelled.
I am amazed. I am grateful to the helpfulness of all. From sitting with smaller children to lending underwear. Standing in the cold outdoors with just a bathing suit to guide the EMS to cleaning up the blood bath. To covering in prayers and not leaving his side with jokes.
I was covered. I had already prayed 2 weeks before. Wisdom. It was the most perfect, worst accident the pool of 30+ years has seen.
8 staples. No headache. Nothing broken/fractured/sprained. Bloody and bruised, yes. His hands are very tender and swollen. And they are the worst of it, pain wise.
I believe with all my heart that that accident was meant for the daredevil diver. I believe with all my heart that my prayer changed what was meant to be. And God was gracious and so perfect.
My heart is full of Thanksgiving.
You see, one of my spiritual gifts happens to be intuition and discernment. It's a blessing and a curse. And maybe I'll talk more about that another time.
I became "aware" about two weeks ago. It was a Friday night. Friday Friend party night!!! . . . . . except I had a nervy feeling in my stomach about work the next morning. (I run a swim lesson program) I wasn't sure if I was just being a wench or my "feelings" were legit.
So I went exploring. And my mind's eye came up with a picture.
In my home town there's this really neat family. It's a pastor and his family. And a couple of years ago they adopted 3 teenagers from the Ukraine. Two of the kids come to swim lessons on Saturday, and one of those kids is a daredevil on the diving board. He's good. And fearless. All the makings you need to be a diver.
My mind picture was of this daredevil hitting the diving board with his head. He would need to be backboarded. And it was going to happen right at the end of swim lessons, when the whistle was blown.
I hated it. But I prayed over it. Asking God to please let that not happen. But if he did, to please cover me in wisdom, as I would be the one to be making the calls.
I prayed real hard. And I went over and over, in my head, the drill for backboarding a victim. And nothing happened that Saturday. And I breathed.
Fast forward to last night. Having moved on from my nervy feelings . . . . I wasn't thinking about diving board accidents anymore.
Tuesday night is homeschool swim. I bring Murnice and Ed for a lesson. Mother runs the program. Sometimes I lifeguard. Sometimes I teach a lesson. Last night I lifeguarded. Mother was playing with Ed in the shallow end while she chatted with me. The whistle blew to signal the end of class. And the divingboard made a horrific sound.
I looked up to see 3 adults rush to the divingboard. I knew somebody had hit it. And then saw that it had been B.B. Bobby. He was at the edge of the pool. Which was a good sign that he could move. I started yelling "DID HE HIT THE BOARD" as I ran down to the deep end.
After about the fifth time of asking the question, somebody finally said "yes, he split his head".
B.B.Bobby is out of the pool at this point, bent over, blooding running down his face. I take this all in as I grabbed the backboard and start ripping the velcro to shreds.
I'm yelling out commands, "CALL 911" and "HELP ME GET HIM ON THE BACKBOARD".
Immediately about 5 adults surrounded me and start yelling at me, "HOW DO WE HELP?"
This is funny to me. You know how in fast moving events, its blurred? So I wonder if what I was saying was actually making sense to bystanders? And then I wonder if I even answered their questions? Or if I just did it myself?
I remember throwing my hands up in the air at one point because I couldn't even get to all the straps because there were so many people surrounded him - supporting and gauzing and evaluating.
And then he was finally on the board, properly. Strapped. Immobilized. He was nauseous and dizzy. And then there's ice.
B.B.Bob was breathing and conscious. The ambulance was on their way. And then I realized, Ed was missing. I didn't see him anywhere in the mass of people. I yelled real loud. Three times. "WHERE'S MY SON".
And there he was. Wrapped in a towel, sitting. By Murnice. Guarded by the lovliest mom. She shared herself. Her time. While others took care of her children.
And then we waited.
I kept going over check lists in my head of what needed to be done. I not only needed to observe the happenings with B.B.Bobby, but there was paper work, and disinfecting, and kids that needed to be taken care of, and dazed parents that needed to be walked step by step through simple directions - such as how to get dressed, a pool to generally organize and lock up, cars and belongings to collect and be driven back to Mothers - since she was going on the ambulance ride, and organizing helpers to stand in the parking lot to direct the ambulance to the correct door. Since Father wasn't answering the phone he needed to be personally got, along with warm clothes and cell phones. And phone calls to later evening funs had to be cancelled.
I am amazed. I am grateful to the helpfulness of all. From sitting with smaller children to lending underwear. Standing in the cold outdoors with just a bathing suit to guide the EMS to cleaning up the blood bath. To covering in prayers and not leaving his side with jokes.
I was covered. I had already prayed 2 weeks before. Wisdom. It was the most perfect, worst accident the pool of 30+ years has seen.
8 staples. No headache. Nothing broken/fractured/sprained. Bloody and bruised, yes. His hands are very tender and swollen. And they are the worst of it, pain wise.
I believe with all my heart that that accident was meant for the daredevil diver. I believe with all my heart that my prayer changed what was meant to be. And God was gracious and so perfect.
My heart is full of Thanksgiving.
Monday, September 23, 2013
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 5
So I've kinda been ignoring this story. It's hard to write when I don't feel sad. I skimp on information, and hurry the story. And make it sound more lovely than it is.
I left off where I just found out that I was pregnant for the second time. I felt no bond. I was excited, but it was an outward excitement. My heart felt nothing. Except betrayal. I couldn't trust my body to grow a baby.
I was desperate to feel pregnant. Bloated, tired, achy, nauseous, anything. I wanted confirmation. I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted a baby.
I was in an odd emotional state. Of wanting something, desperate. But not believing, accepting.
At 5 weeks pregnant, Sister Bear had her wedding. The wedding party had to wear all white.
5 weeks pregnant was when I lost my first baby. I was a mess, just thinking about miscarrying and wearing all white. I don't look at Sister Bear's wedding pictures and think, "Sister Bear's wedding". I think - "5 weeks pregnant with a baby I never held".
I survived the wedding.
I played head games of: I think I feel a little nauseous. I think I feel bloaty. But I didn't. I felt nothing. I called my midwives and told them I just didn't feel pregnant even though I was registering as pregnant according to pee tests. I had more blood work done - and it confirmed that I was pregnant. My levels were good.
I named my fetus Ned. So when he died, I could say: "Ned is dead." And that was the way that I was handling my pregnancy. Just knowing that I wouldn't hold this baby.
I still don't know if it was intuition that this baby wasn't mine. Or if it was my nonbelief that killed Ned.
In the middle of August one weekend, I went to Pier 1 with Queen Bee. I told her I was pregnant a few weeks earlier. I ran into an old neighbor. She asked if I was pregnant. I said no.
When I got home, I used the bathroom. And was bleeding. I told Queen Bee to go home. Big D had a friend over. He got kicked out too. I like to think about how that conversation went. Big D: "So, um - my wife is losing our baby, so you need to go home." Brandon: "Um, this is weird. Good-bye." (In my head, that's how the conversation went.)
The next day was Murnice's 4th birthday. I made a tie-dye cake while wearing a big crunchy pad. Waiting for my baby to fall out. I cried all day. We went to the beach. I made 4 trips to the park bathroom. Waiting. Hoping that I wouldn't have to say good-bye to my baby in a dirty, sandy public bathroom.
Big D and I did the best we could celebrating. Celebrating life. Celebrating Murnice. Celebrating what we had been given.
We put our new 4-year-old to bed. And around 9 that night, Ned slipped out. The finalization is hardest. Because there is always hope. The devastation, rampant. And Big D is in the shadows. Again. Unwilling to mourn with me, together. Unwilling to acknowledge that this was ours.
Ned laid in the bottom of the toilet. I did not have the heart to flush our baby. And I did not have the strength to scoop him out. He was just there. And I was stuck. Feeling so guilty for not feeling brave enough to scoop him out.
Jesus was so kind. I had prayed earlier that it would be a gentle miscarriage. And it was. So peaceful, so gentle and complete.
The end.
I left off where I just found out that I was pregnant for the second time. I felt no bond. I was excited, but it was an outward excitement. My heart felt nothing. Except betrayal. I couldn't trust my body to grow a baby.
I was desperate to feel pregnant. Bloated, tired, achy, nauseous, anything. I wanted confirmation. I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted a baby.
I was in an odd emotional state. Of wanting something, desperate. But not believing, accepting.
At 5 weeks pregnant, Sister Bear had her wedding. The wedding party had to wear all white.
5 weeks pregnant was when I lost my first baby. I was a mess, just thinking about miscarrying and wearing all white. I don't look at Sister Bear's wedding pictures and think, "Sister Bear's wedding". I think - "5 weeks pregnant with a baby I never held".
I survived the wedding.
I played head games of: I think I feel a little nauseous. I think I feel bloaty. But I didn't. I felt nothing. I called my midwives and told them I just didn't feel pregnant even though I was registering as pregnant according to pee tests. I had more blood work done - and it confirmed that I was pregnant. My levels were good.
I named my fetus Ned. So when he died, I could say: "Ned is dead." And that was the way that I was handling my pregnancy. Just knowing that I wouldn't hold this baby.
I still don't know if it was intuition that this baby wasn't mine. Or if it was my nonbelief that killed Ned.
In the middle of August one weekend, I went to Pier 1 with Queen Bee. I told her I was pregnant a few weeks earlier. I ran into an old neighbor. She asked if I was pregnant. I said no.
When I got home, I used the bathroom. And was bleeding. I told Queen Bee to go home. Big D had a friend over. He got kicked out too. I like to think about how that conversation went. Big D: "So, um - my wife is losing our baby, so you need to go home." Brandon: "Um, this is weird. Good-bye." (In my head, that's how the conversation went.)
The next day was Murnice's 4th birthday. I made a tie-dye cake while wearing a big crunchy pad. Waiting for my baby to fall out. I cried all day. We went to the beach. I made 4 trips to the park bathroom. Waiting. Hoping that I wouldn't have to say good-bye to my baby in a dirty, sandy public bathroom.
Big D and I did the best we could celebrating. Celebrating life. Celebrating Murnice. Celebrating what we had been given.
We put our new 4-year-old to bed. And around 9 that night, Ned slipped out. The finalization is hardest. Because there is always hope. The devastation, rampant. And Big D is in the shadows. Again. Unwilling to mourn with me, together. Unwilling to acknowledge that this was ours.
Ned laid in the bottom of the toilet. I did not have the heart to flush our baby. And I did not have the strength to scoop him out. He was just there. And I was stuck. Feeling so guilty for not feeling brave enough to scoop him out.
Jesus was so kind. I had prayed earlier that it would be a gentle miscarriage. And it was. So peaceful, so gentle and complete.
The end.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Struggles of a Couch Lover
I'm doing this virtual bible study called: Good Morning Girls. Admitted - worst, cheesiest, run-away name ever.
But I'm doing it because . . . . um . . . . lots of reasons. My current house of worship does not have something that makes my toes sing, I don't feel like paying money to go to community bible study (cbs), I hate packing the kids up and then spending 17 hours to do something that appears and feels holy but only gets my crunchy panties in a twist and makes me feel like drinking before lunchtime.
So this seemed to be the perfect solution. They provide me with everything I need - minus the bible, binder, and actual paper to be printed on. And I can participate when I want. How I want, with no panty twisting.
After you join, you can decide if you want to do the study on your own, or with a group of people. And you can choose your own group through their forum. Facebook, email, text, instagram. Some groups actually get together face to face. I love how it is so form-able to all different lifestyles.
At first, I had my wall built up 14 cubits tall and 16 cubits wide. (That was a bible joke) Because remember, I struggle with women. But being on week 3, hearts are becoming apparent. I don't feel the need to be so guarded. And I like that a lot. I also like that I don't have to actually talk. Because talking is the worst for me. I can just write. And writing is good.
What I really wanted to talk about today, is something that I struggle with. Something that's been on my mind awhile. Something that maybe other SAHMs struggle with. Or maybe I just do. Because I'm such a wench. (Actually I'm not a wench, I just wanted to say "wench".)
So - being in the work world, it's easy to feel like you're doing things for God. You're generally around people all day long. Doing things for people all day long. You have this sense that you're helping and giving and sacrificing. And the opportunity to share God's love is prevalent. The opportunity is ALWAYS in your face.
When I was off my couch working in hospitals, going to school, massaging, etc - I was always in prayer. Seeking direction and blessings. I was able to do hard, gross things - in the name of "love". And it felt good. And rewarding. And I felt like I was accomplishing things for the kingdom of God. And earning extra jewels for my crown. (That's an inside joke - the jewels part)
But now I live on my couch. Unable to leave it for more than 17 seconds before the world falls apart. I do nothing but break up fights, and hold hands to help poop come out better, and make 8 year olds repeat every word they say like an 8 year old, instead of like a baby, and fight and fight and fight over concepts that were learned 4 years ago, and sing Pippi Longstocking songs that I don't know the words to, except "squish squish". I wash dishes with food rotted on and drink tea with backwash in it, because Ed needs his daily tea almost as badly as I need my daily tea. And my new chore is cleaning pee off the back of the toilet 34 times a day, because somebody doesn't understand the dire importance of holding their peener down while urinating.
I feel worn out and disgusting most moments of everyday. I do not feel close to God. Nor do I feel that I'm doing anything for the kingdom. But I know this feeling is a lie. This job is just more trying for me than my other jobs. I can't leave this job. Not for a second. I'm tired. I'm not EVER doing anything new or fresh. The fights I broke up yesterday, are the same today, the same song, the same dirty dish, the same pee dribble.
But because my life and days feel so monotonous, I wanted to know if there was something else that I was supposed to be doing Something a little more exciting. Some other way to be giving, honoring. I wanted to know if I was missing the boat. I feel so lazy - just sitting on my couch, holding hands.
He said, "I want you to know me".
As great as it was to hear his voice so fast, that's not the answer I was looking for, or expecting.
You see, "doing" makes us feel worthy. Because we still hold on to this belief that we have to earn God's love. And acceptance.
And above all else, he merely wants our heart. Our attention, to be part of our day. Not our acts or services. He wants to be friends. And he wants to share his love with us. Because he thinks we're that great.
The end. Minus the part where I say - I don't need any comments from anyone that says something stupid like: being a mom is the most giving, hardest job there is. And other things on that same note.
Take Aways
1) When we don't feel like we're doing anything, maybe it's a sign that it's a new season. And relationships need to be renewed.
2) A book that has been blowing my mind. lately. It has a wah wah write up that makes it sound like only women with bleached coiffed hair in their 50s should read it. But not so. Ladies who wear 3 day old rotten underwear can read it too. And like it.
3) While typing up "number 2", Ed took such a big swig of tea, that he erupted into choking coughs, which spewed tea everywhere. School books. Couch. Clothes. Carpet. Nay Nay. Computer. I drink black tea. My heart is leaping for joy at the moment.
But I'm doing it because . . . . um . . . . lots of reasons. My current house of worship does not have something that makes my toes sing, I don't feel like paying money to go to community bible study (cbs), I hate packing the kids up and then spending 17 hours to do something that appears and feels holy but only gets my crunchy panties in a twist and makes me feel like drinking before lunchtime.
So this seemed to be the perfect solution. They provide me with everything I need - minus the bible, binder, and actual paper to be printed on. And I can participate when I want. How I want, with no panty twisting.
After you join, you can decide if you want to do the study on your own, or with a group of people. And you can choose your own group through their forum. Facebook, email, text, instagram. Some groups actually get together face to face. I love how it is so form-able to all different lifestyles.
At first, I had my wall built up 14 cubits tall and 16 cubits wide. (That was a bible joke) Because remember, I struggle with women. But being on week 3, hearts are becoming apparent. I don't feel the need to be so guarded. And I like that a lot. I also like that I don't have to actually talk. Because talking is the worst for me. I can just write. And writing is good.
What I really wanted to talk about today, is something that I struggle with. Something that's been on my mind awhile. Something that maybe other SAHMs struggle with. Or maybe I just do. Because I'm such a wench. (Actually I'm not a wench, I just wanted to say "wench".)
So - being in the work world, it's easy to feel like you're doing things for God. You're generally around people all day long. Doing things for people all day long. You have this sense that you're helping and giving and sacrificing. And the opportunity to share God's love is prevalent. The opportunity is ALWAYS in your face.
When I was off my couch working in hospitals, going to school, massaging, etc - I was always in prayer. Seeking direction and blessings. I was able to do hard, gross things - in the name of "love". And it felt good. And rewarding. And I felt like I was accomplishing things for the kingdom of God. And earning extra jewels for my crown. (That's an inside joke - the jewels part)
But now I live on my couch. Unable to leave it for more than 17 seconds before the world falls apart. I do nothing but break up fights, and hold hands to help poop come out better, and make 8 year olds repeat every word they say like an 8 year old, instead of like a baby, and fight and fight and fight over concepts that were learned 4 years ago, and sing Pippi Longstocking songs that I don't know the words to, except "squish squish". I wash dishes with food rotted on and drink tea with backwash in it, because Ed needs his daily tea almost as badly as I need my daily tea. And my new chore is cleaning pee off the back of the toilet 34 times a day, because somebody doesn't understand the dire importance of holding their peener down while urinating.
I feel worn out and disgusting most moments of everyday. I do not feel close to God. Nor do I feel that I'm doing anything for the kingdom. But I know this feeling is a lie. This job is just more trying for me than my other jobs. I can't leave this job. Not for a second. I'm tired. I'm not EVER doing anything new or fresh. The fights I broke up yesterday, are the same today, the same song, the same dirty dish, the same pee dribble.
But because my life and days feel so monotonous, I wanted to know if there was something else that I was supposed to be doing Something a little more exciting. Some other way to be giving, honoring. I wanted to know if I was missing the boat. I feel so lazy - just sitting on my couch, holding hands.
He said, "I want you to know me".
As great as it was to hear his voice so fast, that's not the answer I was looking for, or expecting.
You see, "doing" makes us feel worthy. Because we still hold on to this belief that we have to earn God's love. And acceptance.
And above all else, he merely wants our heart. Our attention, to be part of our day. Not our acts or services. He wants to be friends. And he wants to share his love with us. Because he thinks we're that great.
The end. Minus the part where I say - I don't need any comments from anyone that says something stupid like: being a mom is the most giving, hardest job there is. And other things on that same note.
Take Aways
1) When we don't feel like we're doing anything, maybe it's a sign that it's a new season. And relationships need to be renewed.
2) A book that has been blowing my mind. lately. It has a wah wah write up that makes it sound like only women with bleached coiffed hair in their 50s should read it. But not so. Ladies who wear 3 day old rotten underwear can read it too. And like it.
3) While typing up "number 2", Ed took such a big swig of tea, that he erupted into choking coughs, which spewed tea everywhere. School books. Couch. Clothes. Carpet. Nay Nay. Computer. I drink black tea. My heart is leaping for joy at the moment.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
List of Gratefulness/Things I Love - But Only For Today
Things that I love love love - or possibly don't love, but am grateful for.
1) A story to tell that hopefully brings something good to others. (I was lying in bed last night and realized that it's going to be a never ending story - mainly because I'm writing every blue-dog detail of 5ish years.)
2) Ed saying to Murnice, "Murny, you wanna make babies?" - Meaning, draw babies. Um, I fell in love with him 31 pounds more.
3) Sister Bear calling me at quarter of eleven last night to ask what my message was that I gave B.B. Bobby. (Seriously!) The message I gave to Bobby was, "tell S.B. 11 o'clock at the beach". And Bobby couldn't remember that? And then S.B. has to call me when I'm fast asleep? I guess at this point you're all thinking, "don't answer the phone." But I have to keep my phone 3 inches from my head at night because I've had just enough late calls that have to do with spousal fights and cockroaches and smashed Tupperware and tinker on the edge of having to call the SWAT team in to diffuse.
4) Ed has been telling Big D for a few weeks now that he loves him. It's very sweet. But Ed hasn't shared his love with anybody else, and being the person who pushed him out of my vagina - I feel I should be the first that he loves. Out of pure devotion. But yesterday, when I was scrounging in the fridge, Ed saw a whole bowl of hard boiled eggs. And he told me he loved me. a) I am thrilled he finally found it in his heart to utter those words to me. b) I am horrified that the only reason he loves me is because I boiled some eggs for him.
5) Getting a text from S.B. saying that she was going to McDicks. (for coffee). Um . . . "mcdicks" cracks me up. Or maybe I'm over tired from less than important phone calls in the middle of the night. Yes, quarter of eleven is the middle of the night.
6) Ed obsessed with his "nest" in our bedroom. Ok, so Ed has been sleeping in our bed for weeks now. And it's so sweet and not snugly with very little sleep. Big D gets very hateful over this topic. And I'm getting grumpier night by night. So I ended up making a "nest" on the floor by our bed that he is, can we say - in love with. I made it so when he woke up in the middle of the night he could come to his nest. But his nest is the only place he's sleeping. And for quite a few nights in a row, it has greatly impinged on Big D's and my very adult time that was supposed to go down.
7) Finding some "workout" clothes at TJMAXX that I can stomach wearing. AKA - Big D hates them. I say they are "workout" clothes because I found them in the workout section. I legitimately will feel like a queen wearing them. You may find me wearing workyouty clothes every once in awhile. But you will NEVER find me wearing sneaks. EVER. Or if i do, it will be a very hidden and private affair.
8) Watching B.B. Wensleydale twirly grow into man. He recently became a believer, and his maturity has just blown me to the moon. And possibly the stars. I'm so excited to see what this next year has for him.
9) I recently became privy to some very disheartening/angering/appalling/shocking/wear-my-boxing-mitts, information. And I want nothing more than to yell it from the roof tops. Shedding light where the darkness is. Bringing truth to the deceived. Letting the world know what's happening to a blind eye. So I prayed about it. Asking God what I was supposed to do with this information. And he IMMEDIATELY said, "use it for good". Not fully sure what that means, but I'll do my best. P.S. have I ever mentioned how much I love getting an answer, not to mention an immediate answer from God?
Take Aways
1) I think there are 13 more things I want to chat about - but I must get ready for the leachy beach.
2) I'm not quite sure why I'm in such a grateful mood this morning.
3) Also I said a blessing over Big D has he walked out the door to work. He got really weirded out. And left real fast.
4) Can you believe today is Thursday?!
5) Now that's good news. I love Fridays best.
1) A story to tell that hopefully brings something good to others. (I was lying in bed last night and realized that it's going to be a never ending story - mainly because I'm writing every blue-dog detail of 5ish years.)
2) Ed saying to Murnice, "Murny, you wanna make babies?" - Meaning, draw babies. Um, I fell in love with him 31 pounds more.
3) Sister Bear calling me at quarter of eleven last night to ask what my message was that I gave B.B. Bobby. (Seriously!) The message I gave to Bobby was, "tell S.B. 11 o'clock at the beach". And Bobby couldn't remember that? And then S.B. has to call me when I'm fast asleep? I guess at this point you're all thinking, "don't answer the phone." But I have to keep my phone 3 inches from my head at night because I've had just enough late calls that have to do with spousal fights and cockroaches and smashed Tupperware and tinker on the edge of having to call the SWAT team in to diffuse.
4) Ed has been telling Big D for a few weeks now that he loves him. It's very sweet. But Ed hasn't shared his love with anybody else, and being the person who pushed him out of my vagina - I feel I should be the first that he loves. Out of pure devotion. But yesterday, when I was scrounging in the fridge, Ed saw a whole bowl of hard boiled eggs. And he told me he loved me. a) I am thrilled he finally found it in his heart to utter those words to me. b) I am horrified that the only reason he loves me is because I boiled some eggs for him.
5) Getting a text from S.B. saying that she was going to McDicks. (for coffee). Um . . . "mcdicks" cracks me up. Or maybe I'm over tired from less than important phone calls in the middle of the night. Yes, quarter of eleven is the middle of the night.
6) Ed obsessed with his "nest" in our bedroom. Ok, so Ed has been sleeping in our bed for weeks now. And it's so sweet and not snugly with very little sleep. Big D gets very hateful over this topic. And I'm getting grumpier night by night. So I ended up making a "nest" on the floor by our bed that he is, can we say - in love with. I made it so when he woke up in the middle of the night he could come to his nest. But his nest is the only place he's sleeping. And for quite a few nights in a row, it has greatly impinged on Big D's and my very adult time that was supposed to go down.
7) Finding some "workout" clothes at TJMAXX that I can stomach wearing. AKA - Big D hates them. I say they are "workout" clothes because I found them in the workout section. I legitimately will feel like a queen wearing them. You may find me wearing workyouty clothes every once in awhile. But you will NEVER find me wearing sneaks. EVER. Or if i do, it will be a very hidden and private affair.
8) Watching B.B. Wensleydale twirly grow into man. He recently became a believer, and his maturity has just blown me to the moon. And possibly the stars. I'm so excited to see what this next year has for him.
9) I recently became privy to some very disheartening/angering/appalling/shocking/wear-my-boxing-mitts, information. And I want nothing more than to yell it from the roof tops. Shedding light where the darkness is. Bringing truth to the deceived. Letting the world know what's happening to a blind eye. So I prayed about it. Asking God what I was supposed to do with this information. And he IMMEDIATELY said, "use it for good". Not fully sure what that means, but I'll do my best. P.S. have I ever mentioned how much I love getting an answer, not to mention an immediate answer from God?
Take Aways
1) I think there are 13 more things I want to chat about - but I must get ready for the leachy beach.
2) I'm not quite sure why I'm in such a grateful mood this morning.
3) Also I said a blessing over Big D has he walked out the door to work. He got really weirded out. And left real fast.
4) Can you believe today is Thursday?!
5) Now that's good news. I love Fridays best.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 3
Back to doom and gloom . . .
On a side note - I would like to acknowledge the ladies who have written comments to my posts. Thank you. It means a lot to me, sharing a part of your story. And your past hurt.
Back to massage school . . .
While in school I started reading a lot of John Eldredge books. It actually started when I walked into a Christian bookstore with no direction but to buy one book. I let my heart lead, and it took me to this book.
It was a great beginning of healing. Not so much with my infertility - but more a healing of being a woman, and breaking barriers of who I thought and what I thought about myself.
And sometime during this time, I can't remember if it was while reading this book, or after - but I was reading 1 Samuel chapter 1. Now I know that this was Hannah's story. But promise #2 came. Verse 17: . . . go in peace: and the God of Israel grant thee thy petition that thou hast asked of him . . . verse 20 . . . Hannah had conceived, that she bare a son, and called his name Samuel, saying, because I have asked him of the Lord.
Through reading this, I knew that I was going to have a son. It was as if God walked down and said, "this is for you - I'm talking about you."
Also a key part of our story was what we were praying. Both Big D and I want, truly want God's will. And even though I knew I would have a son, I didn't know where or how he would come to us. Meaning, I didn't know if I was going to conceive or if we would adopt. My heart wanted to conceive. . . . . . We would pray, "God, if it's your will, we would like to have a baby. But if its not what you want for us, then we're ok with that too." It was the most wishy washy whiney prayer ever. More on that later.
Every month I would go beserk with pregnancy tests. I really should have bought stock . . . any person who has struggled/struggles with infertility knows what I'm talking about.
Days before my period was supposed to arrive, I just needed to take a test. I needed to emotionally prepare myself. I needed to know as soon as possible, to expect my period, versus hanging on to a few late days thinking there was a possibility. Because after getting 24 periods back to back, you believe that they will always come. But you always hope that maybe one day . . . And every month, there is hope. Small as it may be, there's always hope. And after every failed pregnancy test and first period day, it seems there is no air left to breath. And you wonder how much longer, how many more periods until there isn't one.
I understand that was the most confusing paragraph known to man-kind. And that kind of sums up how it actually is - emotionally. It's hope and dread and despair and maybe all wrapped into one.
Period number 29 was due. I took my too early test - which came back negative. But by the 5th week of being period free I thought I might need to take another test.
I remember I had to work my lifeguard job that day. I was out of tests, so I left to go to work a little early - giving myself enough time to pick up some more tests at the drugstore. I took the test, in a very secluded bathroom. After a few minutes a very faint line appeared. I almost had to convince myself that there was a line.
I don't remember how I felt at work. I don't remember telling Big D that I was pregnant.
But I do remember the next day. I woke up feeling so free. So queenish. Thinking, "this is it. This is where my story of infertility ends". So happy.
And that's all I'm going to write today.
On a side note - I would like to acknowledge the ladies who have written comments to my posts. Thank you. It means a lot to me, sharing a part of your story. And your past hurt.
Back to massage school . . .
While in school I started reading a lot of John Eldredge books. It actually started when I walked into a Christian bookstore with no direction but to buy one book. I let my heart lead, and it took me to this book.
It was a great beginning of healing. Not so much with my infertility - but more a healing of being a woman, and breaking barriers of who I thought and what I thought about myself.
And sometime during this time, I can't remember if it was while reading this book, or after - but I was reading 1 Samuel chapter 1. Now I know that this was Hannah's story. But promise #2 came. Verse 17: . . . go in peace: and the God of Israel grant thee thy petition that thou hast asked of him . . . verse 20 . . . Hannah had conceived, that she bare a son, and called his name Samuel, saying, because I have asked him of the Lord.
Through reading this, I knew that I was going to have a son. It was as if God walked down and said, "this is for you - I'm talking about you."
Also a key part of our story was what we were praying. Both Big D and I want, truly want God's will. And even though I knew I would have a son, I didn't know where or how he would come to us. Meaning, I didn't know if I was going to conceive or if we would adopt. My heart wanted to conceive. . . . . . We would pray, "God, if it's your will, we would like to have a baby. But if its not what you want for us, then we're ok with that too." It was the most wishy washy whiney prayer ever. More on that later.
Every month I would go beserk with pregnancy tests. I really should have bought stock . . . any person who has struggled/struggles with infertility knows what I'm talking about.
Days before my period was supposed to arrive, I just needed to take a test. I needed to emotionally prepare myself. I needed to know as soon as possible, to expect my period, versus hanging on to a few late days thinking there was a possibility. Because after getting 24 periods back to back, you believe that they will always come. But you always hope that maybe one day . . . And every month, there is hope. Small as it may be, there's always hope. And after every failed pregnancy test and first period day, it seems there is no air left to breath. And you wonder how much longer, how many more periods until there isn't one.
I understand that was the most confusing paragraph known to man-kind. And that kind of sums up how it actually is - emotionally. It's hope and dread and despair and maybe all wrapped into one.
Period number 29 was due. I took my too early test - which came back negative. But by the 5th week of being period free I thought I might need to take another test.
I remember I had to work my lifeguard job that day. I was out of tests, so I left to go to work a little early - giving myself enough time to pick up some more tests at the drugstore. I took the test, in a very secluded bathroom. After a few minutes a very faint line appeared. I almost had to convince myself that there was a line.
I don't remember how I felt at work. I don't remember telling Big D that I was pregnant.
But I do remember the next day. I woke up feeling so free. So queenish. Thinking, "this is it. This is where my story of infertility ends". So happy.
And that's all I'm going to write today.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Q: Do Actions Speak Louder Than Words? A: Correct
You know in the Bible where Jesus says something to the effect: If you love me, then obey my commandments?
Welp, this statement has been on my mind for a few years. There are so many commandments. I get boggled. Then grumpy. Then overwhelmed. Then I throw my arms up in the air (wave them violently) and say negative statements, like "how in the world am I supposed to remember all of those commandments???!!!" And then I think "I hope Jesus doesn't think that I don't love him because I forgot a commandment." All in that order.
It gets gnarly.
Oh, but then beauty happened today. I was talking to one of my goodest pals, and she was chatting about husbands *ahem, cough* and how they say things like: "I love being married to you" and "you're such an amazing mother" and other unoriginal statements - but then they have the audacity to forget special days. Unacknowledged that is. And where does that leave us, the mothers. The wives? Believing your words of praise and love? Or believing your actions?
And in that moment I got my answer. Jesus said, "it's your actions, love me through your actions".
Um, phew!
I know our actions go back to the commandments, but it's so easy to get overwhelmed and wrapped up in the magnitudeness of the word, "commandment". Especially when there are a lot of them.
It's so much simpler staying in tune with my day to day actions. Moment to moment. Focusing on now.
On a side note: This happened.
Ed chewed off the back-tail. And ate it like a potato chip.
Take Aways
1) Search for truth, and the truth will set you free.
2) My hair salon won't call me back. I think they're avoiding me. But I have officially entered the Sewer Rat pageant - and I have a good chance of winning.
3) I'm going out tonight with Queen Bee, and I can't wait and Big D will miss me because he doesn't know how to handle being by himself AND the children.
4) That wasn't true at all.
5) Murnice asked me if sometimes I tell tall tales on my blog - I said, yes.
6) I can't wear any makeup tonight because of my wanky eye. Feeling even more sewer ratish.
Welp, this statement has been on my mind for a few years. There are so many commandments. I get boggled. Then grumpy. Then overwhelmed. Then I throw my arms up in the air (wave them violently) and say negative statements, like "how in the world am I supposed to remember all of those commandments???!!!" And then I think "I hope Jesus doesn't think that I don't love him because I forgot a commandment." All in that order.
It gets gnarly.
Oh, but then beauty happened today. I was talking to one of my goodest pals, and she was chatting about husbands *ahem, cough* and how they say things like: "I love being married to you" and "you're such an amazing mother" and other unoriginal statements - but then they have the audacity to forget special days. Unacknowledged that is. And where does that leave us, the mothers. The wives? Believing your words of praise and love? Or believing your actions?
And in that moment I got my answer. Jesus said, "it's your actions, love me through your actions".
Um, phew!
I know our actions go back to the commandments, but it's so easy to get overwhelmed and wrapped up in the magnitudeness of the word, "commandment". Especially when there are a lot of them.
It's so much simpler staying in tune with my day to day actions. Moment to moment. Focusing on now.
On a side note: This happened.
Take Aways
1) Search for truth, and the truth will set you free.
2) My hair salon won't call me back. I think they're avoiding me. But I have officially entered the Sewer Rat pageant - and I have a good chance of winning.
3) I'm going out tonight with Queen Bee, and I can't wait and Big D will miss me because he doesn't know how to handle being by himself AND the children.
4) That wasn't true at all.
5) Murnice asked me if sometimes I tell tall tales on my blog - I said, yes.
6) I can't wear any makeup tonight because of my wanky eye. Feeling even more sewer ratish.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Holy Water
The Witherhalls had a holy weekend. Ok, not really holy - just a baptism. Big D decided that he needed the holy washing.
It's kinda a long story - and since family reads this to get updates since I don't do the phone very well, I'll tell the story. And they rest of you piglets can do as you please.
Big D could not remember when he became a believer, but got baptized when he was 16. He never really thought about it - until he heard David Jeremiah (on the radio) say that when you become saved, it's a moment in time. And it should be remembered. Something about it should be remembered. And Big D couldn't remember his moment in time. The only thing that was sticking in his memory banks was when he was in college and a change in his heart started to take place and he started to live out the scriptures. And if this is the case, his previous baptism was illegitimate.
I really struggled with this for a lot of personal reasons that I will not get into unless you are super super close to me and we share the same air.
A few of the reasons that I will publicly announce, that crumpled my toes: Big D loves a reason to run away from house duties, which means - if he can turn a 3 minute event into a 5 hour event - he will. And, Big D loves to be a showman. He's one of those people that will invite everybody to everything. (Those types of people make me growl)
So when he finally announced his decision to be baptized, I was on high-alert, grump style. He started going through his list of people that he was going to invite - I got real excited. Asked him what his motive was. And thank you, Jesus - he had a change of heart.
And now I'll move on to the actual day, because I could go on for the rest of the year on all the reasons I was being a sour puss.
Saturday was cool (72ish) Big D decided that 9:30am was perfect (with much cajoling) and the holy water experience was going to take place at a local hikery park that we walked to from our mole hole. Big D decided to invite Friday Friends and two other men (and their families) that have a spiritual impact in his life. It was a perfect intimate group of people. We walked a mile. The men up ahead, the women in the back with the kids. And we finally got to Big D's spot where the boy scouts were having a work party.
I have to be honest. It was quite lovely. My favorite baptism so far. So quiet, so simple, so special with a few of our favorites.
And then the fun began. We played in the river. All of us - minus the mama with the baby.
That's me swinging out on the rope swing. Yes, I'm wearing a dress. Big D is holding Ed, and Murnice is watching.
Take Aways
1) I'm glad I have a husband/bed romper friend that hears and obeys God.
2) I am so glad that all of the "things" that I was crumpled about - did not come to pass.
3) I am so glad that we had river time, together.
It's kinda a long story - and since family reads this to get updates since I don't do the phone very well, I'll tell the story. And they rest of you piglets can do as you please.
Big D could not remember when he became a believer, but got baptized when he was 16. He never really thought about it - until he heard David Jeremiah (on the radio) say that when you become saved, it's a moment in time. And it should be remembered. Something about it should be remembered. And Big D couldn't remember his moment in time. The only thing that was sticking in his memory banks was when he was in college and a change in his heart started to take place and he started to live out the scriptures. And if this is the case, his previous baptism was illegitimate.
I really struggled with this for a lot of personal reasons that I will not get into unless you are super super close to me and we share the same air.
A few of the reasons that I will publicly announce, that crumpled my toes: Big D loves a reason to run away from house duties, which means - if he can turn a 3 minute event into a 5 hour event - he will. And, Big D loves to be a showman. He's one of those people that will invite everybody to everything. (Those types of people make me growl)
So when he finally announced his decision to be baptized, I was on high-alert, grump style. He started going through his list of people that he was going to invite - I got real excited. Asked him what his motive was. And thank you, Jesus - he had a change of heart.
And now I'll move on to the actual day, because I could go on for the rest of the year on all the reasons I was being a sour puss.
Saturday was cool (72ish) Big D decided that 9:30am was perfect (with much cajoling) and the holy water experience was going to take place at a local hikery park that we walked to from our mole hole. Big D decided to invite Friday Friends and two other men (and their families) that have a spiritual impact in his life. It was a perfect intimate group of people. We walked a mile. The men up ahead, the women in the back with the kids. And we finally got to Big D's spot where the boy scouts were having a work party.
I have to be honest. It was quite lovely. My favorite baptism so far. So quiet, so simple, so special with a few of our favorites.
And then the fun began. We played in the river. All of us - minus the mama with the baby.
That's me swinging out on the rope swing. Yes, I'm wearing a dress. Big D is holding Ed, and Murnice is watching.
Take Aways
1) I'm glad I have a husband/bed romper friend that hears and obeys God.
2) I am so glad that all of the "things" that I was crumpled about - did not come to pass.
3) I am so glad that we had river time, together.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Not the Safe Choice
I haven't really talked about this - but I have been interviewing for a job. A nursey job. It's been a 2 month process.
It was a perfect opportunity, doing something that I'm ridiculously excited about. It could not have been a better set up for me - being a stay at home mom - or shall I say, SAHM.
First interview went great. And that was because I didn't have to say much. They just wanted to let me know what their business was all about. And before I left we had set up a second interview.
Second interview was a tad more challenging. I had to do a lot more tongue flapping. There were a lot of forehead crinkles at things I would say. And honestly, I was not expecting to be invited back.
But I was. For a third time. And I had the best time at my 3rd. Maybe I was just getting used to the process. Or I just decided to be my snazz-sparkle self. It was glorious. I walked away expecting not to get the job, but relishing in the fact that I was true down to my toes and that I got a bunch (and I mean a bunch) of funny looks and squirms.
Let me preface what I'm going to say next, by saying that my lie (and everybody has a lie that they're told) is that I'm not good enough. Such a good lie. And I believe more than I would like to admit.
I got the call yesterday that let know that they had "found somebody else that fit the job requirements better".
For those of you who have gotten this call for an opportunity that you were a bit stoked about - know the hurt.
First I believed the lie - I'm not good enough. Then I cried 37 tears. Then I wondered why it took two months and 3 interviews for them to tell me that I was too rad for them. Then I started to question myself on how I answered the questions. Then I got angry at their lack of open heartedness and their inability to take a risk and hire somebody who would rock their world on all the levels that their world is built.
And then I remembered that Jesus only gives us the best. And that this was a gift. And I wouldn't cry or feel rage for a perfect gift handed to me from Sally Jones, why should I feel grumpled over this gift - that I know is perfect.
So I'm choosing, choosing this gift. Refusing the lie, the best I can. And believing that God is allowing me the chance and opportunity to stay home full time, to homeschool full time, to have playtime with friends full time. To continue to cook dinner 3x a week and wash poopy underwear full time. I'm going to choose to trust the bigger and better picture that I can't see, but I'm learning about through experience.
I know in my heart of hearts that I was indeed the perfect person for this job opening. But I was not the safe candidate, and I understand a business wanting to make a safe decision. I wasn't safe because I still have young children at home and the probability of me leaving the company within a few years is great - and training takes up to a year. Also, they need somebody a tad more conservative in the vocal arena.
Take Aways
1) Choose to look at the unpleasantries as a gift.
2) Or at least try.
3) Say no to your lie.
4) And look at pictures of all the sweet babies that have entered their new world. Welcome Miles, Evelyn, Benaiah, and Isaac!
It was a perfect opportunity, doing something that I'm ridiculously excited about. It could not have been a better set up for me - being a stay at home mom - or shall I say, SAHM.
First interview went great. And that was because I didn't have to say much. They just wanted to let me know what their business was all about. And before I left we had set up a second interview.
Second interview was a tad more challenging. I had to do a lot more tongue flapping. There were a lot of forehead crinkles at things I would say. And honestly, I was not expecting to be invited back.
But I was. For a third time. And I had the best time at my 3rd. Maybe I was just getting used to the process. Or I just decided to be my snazz-sparkle self. It was glorious. I walked away expecting not to get the job, but relishing in the fact that I was true down to my toes and that I got a bunch (and I mean a bunch) of funny looks and squirms.
Let me preface what I'm going to say next, by saying that my lie (and everybody has a lie that they're told) is that I'm not good enough. Such a good lie. And I believe more than I would like to admit.
I got the call yesterday that let know that they had "found somebody else that fit the job requirements better".
For those of you who have gotten this call for an opportunity that you were a bit stoked about - know the hurt.
First I believed the lie - I'm not good enough. Then I cried 37 tears. Then I wondered why it took two months and 3 interviews for them to tell me that I was too rad for them. Then I started to question myself on how I answered the questions. Then I got angry at their lack of open heartedness and their inability to take a risk and hire somebody who would rock their world on all the levels that their world is built.
And then I remembered that Jesus only gives us the best. And that this was a gift. And I wouldn't cry or feel rage for a perfect gift handed to me from Sally Jones, why should I feel grumpled over this gift - that I know is perfect.
So I'm choosing, choosing this gift. Refusing the lie, the best I can. And believing that God is allowing me the chance and opportunity to stay home full time, to homeschool full time, to have playtime with friends full time. To continue to cook dinner 3x a week and wash poopy underwear full time. I'm going to choose to trust the bigger and better picture that I can't see, but I'm learning about through experience.
I know in my heart of hearts that I was indeed the perfect person for this job opening. But I was not the safe candidate, and I understand a business wanting to make a safe decision. I wasn't safe because I still have young children at home and the probability of me leaving the company within a few years is great - and training takes up to a year. Also, they need somebody a tad more conservative in the vocal arena.
Take Aways
1) Choose to look at the unpleasantries as a gift.
2) Or at least try.
3) Say no to your lie.
4) And look at pictures of all the sweet babies that have entered their new world. Welcome Miles, Evelyn, Benaiah, and Isaac!
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Dear Jesus, Food
Mother has a different way of handling food. She buys lots. And then stores it forever. Until it gets used. OR until one of us can get our hands on it when Mother is not paying attention (aka out of town = never) and feed it to the chickens. Also, she is really good at letting food air marinate (aka keeping refrigerated food on the counter for longer than I would like to know).
Expiration dates mean nothing to Mother. Smells mean everything. Don't throw food out that has mold. Just cut it off. Scrap it out. It's still good, somewhere. Microwave it an extra 3 seconds.
Yup, we don't waste food at Mothers. Eat what you're served or pay $1. And over the years we have had fun with it. Because there was/is no other choice.
Growing up, Bruver Bear Chuck would often say, "I'm a hungry hyena and this is my bone" - to food that was less than appetizing. And then he would proceed to cram his food in his mouth as fast as he could. You know, food spewing everywhere. He would also refer to oatmeal as "great grandmother's soggy old feet".
And once Sister Bear was practicing her culinary skills and thought that making the largest pan known to mankind of frozen, breaded chicken patties covered in alfredo and spaghetti sauce sounded perfect. Did I mention the pan was an illegal size of hugeness? Can't waste food, so we sat down to a gag-induced dinner. The fellas really out did themselves. They had 2nd helpings to finish off the pan. And then all ran across the road to throw up. Did I mention that we also had dinner guests that night?
Thanksgiving turkey carcasses are left on the stove,14 too many hours. And some how in this bacterial oasis, nobody has ever gotten sick. Maybe it's because we pray extra hard to bless the food. Or, perhaps our bodies have built an extra 13 layers of protection in our stomachs. Not quite sure which it is.
***************************************************************************
Dinner last night consisted of cream of chicken soup that expired in 2009, stuffing that expired in 2011, and some sour cream that smelled like a rotten chicken butt hole (didn't check the expiration on that one - just smelled)
We survived. Without even a smudge of a tummy ache. That's the power of Jesus, baby. (You know, pine-sol commercial?)
Anyway, if anybody would like to throw up an extra prayer for me over the next 4 weeks regarding my stomach accepting the food presented to me - I would greatly be pleased.
Take Aways
1) Never ever ever take a microbiology class.
2) Always pray before eating.
3) When life tastes like grandmother's soggy old feet, find something to snicker about.
4) Don't be ashamed of having dinner guests over if your dinner didn't turn out the way you wanted. Building community and memories is way more important than a little episode of puke.
Expiration dates mean nothing to Mother. Smells mean everything. Don't throw food out that has mold. Just cut it off. Scrap it out. It's still good, somewhere. Microwave it an extra 3 seconds.
Yup, we don't waste food at Mothers. Eat what you're served or pay $1. And over the years we have had fun with it. Because there was/is no other choice.
Growing up, Bruver Bear Chuck would often say, "I'm a hungry hyena and this is my bone" - to food that was less than appetizing. And then he would proceed to cram his food in his mouth as fast as he could. You know, food spewing everywhere. He would also refer to oatmeal as "great grandmother's soggy old feet".
And once Sister Bear was practicing her culinary skills and thought that making the largest pan known to mankind of frozen, breaded chicken patties covered in alfredo and spaghetti sauce sounded perfect. Did I mention the pan was an illegal size of hugeness? Can't waste food, so we sat down to a gag-induced dinner. The fellas really out did themselves. They had 2nd helpings to finish off the pan. And then all ran across the road to throw up. Did I mention that we also had dinner guests that night?
Thanksgiving turkey carcasses are left on the stove,14 too many hours. And some how in this bacterial oasis, nobody has ever gotten sick. Maybe it's because we pray extra hard to bless the food. Or, perhaps our bodies have built an extra 13 layers of protection in our stomachs. Not quite sure which it is.
***************************************************************************
Dinner last night consisted of cream of chicken soup that expired in 2009, stuffing that expired in 2011, and some sour cream that smelled like a rotten chicken butt hole (didn't check the expiration on that one - just smelled)
We survived. Without even a smudge of a tummy ache. That's the power of Jesus, baby. (You know, pine-sol commercial?)
Anyway, if anybody would like to throw up an extra prayer for me over the next 4 weeks regarding my stomach accepting the food presented to me - I would greatly be pleased.
Take Aways
1) Never ever ever take a microbiology class.
2) Always pray before eating.
3) When life tastes like grandmother's soggy old feet, find something to snicker about.
4) Don't be ashamed of having dinner guests over if your dinner didn't turn out the way you wanted. Building community and memories is way more important than a little episode of puke.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Why I Hate Church
For quite awhile I've been struggling with the idea of church. But lately, it's been heavily on my mind. The silliness of it all.
I don't think that it was supposed to be "silly". Back when whoever came up with "church". But it has gotten that way.
So, these are my thoughts on church. Because I blog, and blogging is a purging of the mind. Or, diarrhea of the mouth via the fingers.
. . . . . .
I think church was created, or has become a way to alleviate guilt. I think it's a man-made thing. At least in the United States.
It doesn't matter the denomination. We go to church because. . . "that's what you do"? To learn about Jesus? Sing songs? Be together as one body learning about Jesus and singing songs? To feel good about ourselves?
And then, what do we wear? Our best? Or the usual? Does it really matter? Do we feel guilty if we don't wear our best? Or is not having nice enough clothes one of the excuses of why we don't go to church? Why are clothes always a hot topic when it comes to church?
We smile nice and have "no" issues going on in our lives. We shake hands like fake soldiers and gush pleasantries. And say things like, "be blessed" and "good to see you".
We sing songs that make us feel good. And have too big screens with fancy swirls zooming across. Video clips. Too much air-conditioning. To the point where it is imperative to bring thick sweaters. Programs to wisk our kids off too.
I really hate all of it. So fake. So needy.
And maybe it's not. Maybe I'm just having a poo attitude. But where else in the world is this going on? Isn't simple Jesus enough?
What happened to just plain old regular church? A sermon that teaches truth, encourages. Gives hope. What happened to kids sitting up with their parents and learning the art of sitting still for a bit? Learning the art of listening. Hearing together. Why. Why do they have to be separate? Entertained?
To make it fun? So people come back? To pay the bills the church ensues from having a flashy place?
Church doesn't need to be entertianing. Church doesn't need to dull either.
If you truly want to gather together, be filled with God's truth and hope. Isn't that enough? It is everywhere else in the world. Why isn't ok for Americans?
Because we're whiny and needy and selfish. And need to be entertained.
And I'm not just talking about "big" churches either. The "smaller" churches, even more conservative churches are just as guilty. The ones that follow the "rules" that they've set up.
Where is God's heart in all of this? Why does it all seem so man-made and controlled? Who are we trying to impress?
What if we just went bare bones. What if we as a church were brave enough to open our hearts and not feel fear of revealing. What if we included each other in our lives? And didn't care about who thought what about what?
What if we were ok with just hearing truth? Without screens and swirls? What if our songs were strong, that yelled out truth. Old songs that meant something. They don't have to be slow. Or boring. There doesn't need to be an organ. We can still dance wild and free. New songs that really roared.
What if kids sat with parents. And learned too? And it was a family affair.
What if we really looked at our hearts and discovered why? And then did something about it to break boundaries.
What if we danced wild and free - not because of the music, but because of freedom.
What if we broke tradition? And looked each other in the eye and said, "I'm not having any of this". No to guilt. No to shaking your hand. And stop watching porn.
Take Aways
1) Where is the heart and what is behind motives?
2) Refuse to shake hands and bow instead.
3) Stop being fake and ruled by guilt.
By saying all of this, I am not trying to put down any church. I have just found that overall in church-hood too much is going on that doesn't matter. Man is played up. And I'm tired of the facade. Where is the truth?
Ok, I think I'm going to step down off my soap box. Anybody else out there have thoughts?
Also, there are things about church that I do appreciate. But my title is "why I hate church" - so I'm going to leave it at that. The end. Or should I say, Amen.
I don't think that it was supposed to be "silly". Back when whoever came up with "church". But it has gotten that way.
So, these are my thoughts on church. Because I blog, and blogging is a purging of the mind. Or, diarrhea of the mouth via the fingers.
. . . . . .
I think church was created, or has become a way to alleviate guilt. I think it's a man-made thing. At least in the United States.
It doesn't matter the denomination. We go to church because. . . "that's what you do"? To learn about Jesus? Sing songs? Be together as one body learning about Jesus and singing songs? To feel good about ourselves?
And then, what do we wear? Our best? Or the usual? Does it really matter? Do we feel guilty if we don't wear our best? Or is not having nice enough clothes one of the excuses of why we don't go to church? Why are clothes always a hot topic when it comes to church?
We smile nice and have "no" issues going on in our lives. We shake hands like fake soldiers and gush pleasantries. And say things like, "be blessed" and "good to see you".
We sing songs that make us feel good. And have too big screens with fancy swirls zooming across. Video clips. Too much air-conditioning. To the point where it is imperative to bring thick sweaters. Programs to wisk our kids off too.
I really hate all of it. So fake. So needy.
And maybe it's not. Maybe I'm just having a poo attitude. But where else in the world is this going on? Isn't simple Jesus enough?
What happened to just plain old regular church? A sermon that teaches truth, encourages. Gives hope. What happened to kids sitting up with their parents and learning the art of sitting still for a bit? Learning the art of listening. Hearing together. Why. Why do they have to be separate? Entertained?
To make it fun? So people come back? To pay the bills the church ensues from having a flashy place?
Church doesn't need to be entertianing. Church doesn't need to dull either.
If you truly want to gather together, be filled with God's truth and hope. Isn't that enough? It is everywhere else in the world. Why isn't ok for Americans?
Because we're whiny and needy and selfish. And need to be entertained.
And I'm not just talking about "big" churches either. The "smaller" churches, even more conservative churches are just as guilty. The ones that follow the "rules" that they've set up.
Where is God's heart in all of this? Why does it all seem so man-made and controlled? Who are we trying to impress?
What if we just went bare bones. What if we as a church were brave enough to open our hearts and not feel fear of revealing. What if we included each other in our lives? And didn't care about who thought what about what?
What if we were ok with just hearing truth? Without screens and swirls? What if our songs were strong, that yelled out truth. Old songs that meant something. They don't have to be slow. Or boring. There doesn't need to be an organ. We can still dance wild and free. New songs that really roared.
What if kids sat with parents. And learned too? And it was a family affair.
What if we really looked at our hearts and discovered why? And then did something about it to break boundaries.
What if we danced wild and free - not because of the music, but because of freedom.
What if we broke tradition? And looked each other in the eye and said, "I'm not having any of this". No to guilt. No to shaking your hand. And stop watching porn.
Take Aways
1) Where is the heart and what is behind motives?
2) Refuse to shake hands and bow instead.
3) Stop being fake and ruled by guilt.
By saying all of this, I am not trying to put down any church. I have just found that overall in church-hood too much is going on that doesn't matter. Man is played up. And I'm tired of the facade. Where is the truth?
Ok, I think I'm going to step down off my soap box. Anybody else out there have thoughts?
Also, there are things about church that I do appreciate. But my title is "why I hate church" - so I'm going to leave it at that. The end. Or should I say, Amen.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Where I've Been - Day 2
I really out did myself on the weeny whiny baby part on day two.
Weeny Whiny Fit #1
Being woken up at 7am by a very eager beaver husband who could not wait to get to our destination for the day. Hershey Park.
Weeny Whiny Fit #2
Having the tv turned off on me while I was watching a cat hoarder show snuggled up in bed, refusing to move my bottom and thoroughly enjoying cable.
Weeny Whiny Fit #3
Fit #3 never ended. From the time we left the hotel until the time we pulled into our driveway back home I threw a fit. I do want to say that I really tried my hardest to remember this trip was not about me. But there were just some times were I couldn't keep it under cover a second more.
Honestly, I view amusement parks like a chore when you have children. There is nothing amusing about them. Just driving to one makes me want to turn around, right back to that cozy bed I left and watch cat hoarder shows.
Things that make me hyperventilate
1) The line of cars just to get into the park
2) The hot sun
3) The amount of pavement.
4) The masses of people that are all pleased as punch that they are at Hershey Park.
5) I don't like pleased as punch people.
6) The lines people commit to stand in just to go on a 30 second ride.
7) The bathing suits that should be illegal to wear.
8) The fast-food around every corner that cost 3 arms and 2 toe-nails.
9) The incredibly awful/creepy waiters named Julian that ask stupid questions and stare too long.
10) Big D's over exuberant attitude about staying as long as possible.
Personally, I was ready to leave around lunch time. Approximately an hour and a half and 3 rides in. We had officially experienced the Hersh Park.
I really turned into a 2 year old at this point. I will not go into details.
But I guess the highlight of day 2 began when Big D finally deemed it was allowable to leave.
It started raining. And we only had a mile to walk back to the car. And then it went from raining to - Jesus really wanted to host a spontaneous white tee-shirt contest but you didn't have to have a white tee-shirt to participate. And then we couldn't open our eyes. And the parking lot that was the size of a Hawaiian Island turned into an ankle-deep watering hole.
And Big D got really excited looking at me, because I looked like a drowned sewer rat - and that look really does it for him. Or maybe he got excited because it looked like I was wearing spandex. Who knows. But he was paying me extra attention.
And then the arguing began. Big D thought it would be wise and pleasant to throw everybody in the car with all of our belongings and drive somewhere to change.
Now any mother knows this is the foolishest of foolish decisions ever. If we did that, we would never get dry the whole way home - due to the car and seats soaking up our rat-hood.
So I put my foot down hard, which caused a mighty splash.
How we went from wet to dry and had a semi-pleasant ride home until we went to the Mulberry Cafe
1) Undressed kids in Noah's flood and threw them into the car with a semi-dry towel. (a miracle gift from God)
2) Shouted through the window to Murnice to dry herself off and then Ed.
3) Opened the trunk and retrieved kids clothes in approximately .00034 seconds and threw them in the car.
4) Shouted more instructions through the window to Murnice.
5) Wisked all drowned clothes into a pile and then found a bag collection that was supposed to go to Weggers but was forgotten about for such a time as this.
6) Shouted more instructions to get into car seats.
7) Adult clothes came off - all thoughts of modesty don't waft around when you are in survival mode.
8) Laughed that we could see daddy's peener.
9) Jumped into mostly dry car and finagled clothes on.
I would like to point out that Jesus did stop the rain for a few minutes in that 30 minute wet clothes/dry clothes dance so that we could do few vital car rearrangements. Thank you Jesus.
Take Aways
1) Never, never agree to discounted homeschooler tickets to amusements parks again.
2) Smile smugly that when mother says it's time to go, that mother knows best. And if we had left when mother said lets go - we would have been very dry and pleasant all the way home. And had time to go to Olive Garden vs. Mulberry Cafe that ended up being a rodent hole. AND we would have gotten home before midnight.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Guilt vs. Conviction
I've been struggling with the concept of guilt versus conviction.
You've probably seen that thingy going around on facebook. There are two rows. Each row has a header. One says "God" and one says "Satan". I don't remember anything else on the list except that God brings conviction and that Satan brings guilt.
Ok. Great. But what does guilt versus conviction look like?. Or feel like? There's always that underlying feeling of "you should have done this" or "if you loved me . . ." or "you are so unholy". And the list never ends of these voices. They sound good. They sound like things I think God would say. Because he wants us to strive for all things great and holy.
And then I got my answer. Guilt just makes you feel guilty. Conviction punches you in the gut. Knocks you on your face. And you can do nothing but beg for forgiveness, because the stench of your sin overpowers the pride to stand and ignore the offense. It's almost like a reflex. This hearing or reading of truth. Penetrates to the soul. And washes.
So there you have it. In case you were wondering the difference.
And now it's thundering, so I must get off of this electrical device.
Take Aways
1) God's love should never take us by surprise - but it always does
2) I love it most when God reveals.
Fun Fact
Murnice has picked up a Florence Nightingale book and can't put it down. Also, I have cherry coke in the freezer and I can't stop thinking about it.
You've probably seen that thingy going around on facebook. There are two rows. Each row has a header. One says "God" and one says "Satan". I don't remember anything else on the list except that God brings conviction and that Satan brings guilt.
Ok. Great. But what does guilt versus conviction look like?. Or feel like? There's always that underlying feeling of "you should have done this" or "if you loved me . . ." or "you are so unholy". And the list never ends of these voices. They sound good. They sound like things I think God would say. Because he wants us to strive for all things great and holy.
And then I got my answer. Guilt just makes you feel guilty. Conviction punches you in the gut. Knocks you on your face. And you can do nothing but beg for forgiveness, because the stench of your sin overpowers the pride to stand and ignore the offense. It's almost like a reflex. This hearing or reading of truth. Penetrates to the soul. And washes.
So there you have it. In case you were wondering the difference.
And now it's thundering, so I must get off of this electrical device.
Take Aways
1) God's love should never take us by surprise - but it always does
2) I love it most when God reveals.
Fun Fact
Murnice has picked up a Florence Nightingale book and can't put it down. Also, I have cherry coke in the freezer and I can't stop thinking about it.
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