I Want to Be a Writer When I Grow Up.. Or Now is Good, Too!

A few months ago, I not so subtly dropped a hint of obvious proportions to one of my students' mammas. She mentioned she co-owns a website geared at supporting mothers as we bumble our way down this all too crazy path called life. I mentioned back that I write, and I may, or may not, have followed it up on my knees asking to submit an article. I love that every time she and I talk, she pretends like I am the one doing her the favor, but honestly, I want to be a writer when I grow up. I want to use my snarky attitude and realist take on diapering and remind moms, "YOU ARE NOT HERE ALONE! I HAVE BEEN WEARING THE SAME YOGA PANTS ALL WEEK. NO MY HAIR ISN'T CLEAN; I RAN IT UNDER WATER. AND THE REASON YOU SEE SO MANY COLORS ON MY TOES IS THAT I WAS TOO LAZY, TIRED, PREOCCUPIED, DIDN'T ACTUALLY CARE TO TAKE OFF MY OLD COLOR." I wish mothers spoke like this more often.

For reals, I feel more like Ms. Collete Reardon (Saturday Night Live) way more often than I ever feel like Joan Cleaver. Lucky for me, neither of those ladies are my mothering heroes.
I look right and left; I look far back; I look in my own backyard. God is so faithful to surround us with mentoring mothers. At the same time, before we even know what is happening, WE become those mentoring moms. Friends who are older than me, or seem more experienced with life, ask me for advice simply because I have been a mom longer.

It's give and take. It's living in community. It's extending grace and living purposefully together in Christ. It's realizing that it does not actually take a village to raise a child; It takes a church.

If you are a mom, or you know a mom, check out this amazing resource of articles, printables, daily devotions, and my article entitled REMAIN AS DIRECTED.

Click here to visit Just For You Mom

Linking Up With Gypsy: Beautiful

1. Write for five minutes with no editing. Just write.
2. Link back (see button)
3. Visit the person who posted before you.

Five minutes.

Go: Beauty is what we choose. It's how we look at something. It has more to do with the eyes we use and much less to do with how something would rank on a "beauty scale." There's no ranking system. There's no sentence that states a fact about beauty. Except to say beauty is what we make of it. If I decide my sweats are beautiful, I mean REALLY decide my sweats are beautiful, then they are. It's like artwork or jewelry or oatmeal. These are very personal items. If you buy a piece of artwork for a friend, they can choose to look and see something they may not have picked for themselves, a piece that doesn't match their other decor, or maybe. Maybe they will choose beauty and every time they pass that piece of artwork, displayed proudly in their home, they will stop and think of the person who bought it for them. The person who took the time and money and care to think of them enough in that moment to buy them something. That's beauty. Or maybe when we receive a bowl of oatmeal that has a little too much, or not quite enough water, or raisins or whatever else we are used to having in our morning meal, maybe instead of noticing all of those things, we will take a minute and be grateful for food and the love of someone who cared enough to take a minute, a thought, to make us a bowl of oatmeal. It's OUR eyes that make beautiful. What will you see when you look out?

:Stop

 

What's Going On Here!

I deleted my last post. My pictures apparently had minds of their own, and I don't like pictures who think for themselves. Creeps me out. So I quit. I thought I should clarify in case you were here, and now you are here again, and they are gone. You aren't crazy, although I am not a doctor. So, you could be.

Anyway. I am watching everything happen around me and trying to refrain from building a bubble around my family and moving in.

Currently:

• friends' car broke down

• friend had a baby, her gall bladder broke, then her whole body broke which is super convenient when you have a preschooler, a toddler, and a newborn.

• friends are on their way to move here and their UHaul broke, twice. still waiting on news from that as they camp out on the side of the freeway in Washington and try to stay positive

• friend's kid had surgery and had a wicked reaction to everything: fever, sick, sick, and sick

• The Man learned that 19 fire fighters were killed in action yesterday. News like this always hits close to home.
• friend's washer exploded and ruined their house. Twice.

Seriously, every where I look there is craziness. But bubbles don't protect. They are flimsy and probably smell.

Instead I am standing firm that if something breaks through our calm, God is legit. Like MC Hammer, only better because God would never wear Velcro pants. Ever.

This morning I put my baby on a plane with another teenager today. No grown up. Just a teenager who shares her snarky wit and affinity for recognizing a movie quote when the speaker didn't realize anyone would catch on. Isabelle is 15; I don't even have to right to call her a baby anymore, but she is MY baby. I can't decide if I am sadder that she is so independent and rocks at life or if I would be sadder if she was clingy and lame. She doesn't need me because she depends heavily on Jesus. Even when I am there, we stop and pray when crap happens. She doesn't need me. I am glad, but sort of not.

In a few months, she is going to leave for another country to minister to El Salvadorians. It's what God wants of her. It's what she wants. It will change her life and remind her of God's big plan for her. But it means she goes without me. Again. This is the risk in raising your kids to be radical for God. They do it. With or without you, they go and become fishers of men. Happy fishing, baby girl. I am proud of your choices even when you corn dog your brother and your aim is a bit off and you make him cry.

Sometimes I Can't Sleep

So I toss and turn until my brain gets so full I have to do something about it. I guess I'll write to you people. Because I like you.

The birds are up and at 'em. Boy howdy, those guys sure like to make some noise in the four o'clock hour. I like it though. We have so many trees in our neighborhood, there's bound to be a good nest or two to study in the fall with the kiddos. 

Homeschooling again excites me. We have submitted most of our paperwork to the online school in which the kids will participate. They are a very organized group, but can I just say, the lady on my case is on my case. Know what I mean? She calls every three days. "It's protocol" and by that she means "listen big haired lady. I have a job to do, and no matter what we may have agreed upon, I am going to call you and pretend that agreed upon never happened. Gimme your paperwork, and nobody gets hurt!"

For instance. I sent everything except proof of residence (I forgot), Elijah's shot record update (he hasn't updated it on account of I haven't taken him to get his shot on account of we were in Vegas for the week, which she also knew), and the kids' most recent report cards (because I JUST got them in the mail late Friday night). So Stalky McStalkerton called TWICE and sent TWO emails yesterday. I missed both of her calls, so I called her back. I was one of those people who says you are crazy, but I begin the conversation in my smiling voice and the phrase, "with all due respect," and when I assume she is getting upset I remind her, "hey. I said with all due respect. You are sort of a stalker. Sometimes I talk, and you hear 'I am sending you paperwork this instant' instead of what I really said, which is 'back off crazy town. I'll win this.'" Ok. That was mostly inter-dialogue, but she's scared. 

Don't get me wrong. We have enjoyed this school program, and I'd recommend it to almost anyone. It's just that this lady takes her job very seriously. Paperwork is  NOT a laughing matter. 

[insert random office quote] yah, I have lots of questions. First of all, how dare you?

So I guess I will be taking my son for his shot this week. Faxing in a few papers. And singing Brass Monkey by the Beastie Boys, which I used to think was about a guy with a lot of stress, but fancy stress, so his monkey is brass. Now I am beginning to think it's a drug reference. Maybe I'll find a new song. 

[insert random office quote] 

Michael: Hmm... Jim? I am downloading some N3P...

Jim: That's not it.

Michael: Music...

Jim: Yeah.

Michael: For a CD mix tape...

Jim: Close.

Michael: For Holly.

Jim: Mmhmm.

Michael: And I'm looking for perfect songs that work on two levels.

Jim: What are the two levels?

Michael: The two levels being, uh, Welcome to Scranton...

Jim: Mmhmm.

Michael: And I love you.

While we are on the subject, I miss The Office. Those guys have been in my life, faithful for years. Now they are just some friends I used to know from Scranton. 

I went to the gym yesterday. It was quick and painful. CrossFit you two- timing back stabber. I can hardly walk up (or down) my stairs. I hope you are happy with yourself. I look like an idiot. 

Today should be exciting. It's day two of my job. Yesterday went well. I ate a healthy lunch and drank a seriously delicious cafe mocha, straight from the Keurig. Is this even how you spell this funny name? Whatevers. It was yum.

Today though, I get to take two teenagers (one who has my snarky wit and is merely using my place of business as a pick up joint. I mean she Is being picked up there by a friend. And another who is spending the day with me because I like her. She's not my kid. Just on loan.)

  Also, I get a new computer, and I have a meeting with a former student's mamma. She works at this crazy great blog/website  called Just For You Mom.* She said she might want me to write a little ditty or a little datty for the blog. I am super stoked, because that would be brilliant that's why. 

*if you are reading this before the new computer is up and running, this won't be a link. If you are reading this after I add the link, and you are a mom, check out that website. RESOURCES galore! Encouraging words. Some funny. Maybe this girl. We will see. It would be fun to have a different venue every once in a while. 

[insert random office quote]

Michael: We're like Friends. I am Chandler, and Joey, and Pam is Rachel, and Dwight is Kramer.

Back to sleep. Maybe I can get a full forty five minutes. 

Ps this picture makes my uterus arise from its slumber and quiver and reconsider my adamant stance on the residence there.

Fathers.

My fire fighter husband is the best. Let me count the ways:

He laughs. 

He jokes. 

He loves. 

He snuggles (but not too long, because it's weird). 

He sports tattoos like a rebel. 

He saves lives. Literally. 

He is logical. 

He is real. 

He hugs.

He can fix anything. Literally. 

He invents things when there isn't a device to get the job done. 

He put the handy in manny. 

He makes his uniform blush. 

He is outdoorsy. 

He is indoorsy. 

He is whatever doorsy we are being that day. 

He is blonde. 

He has muscles. Lots. 

He cooks. 

He takes time and teaches my children what matters. 

He prays. 

He says thank you. 

He holds the door for me. 

He rushes to help elderly people. 

He sweeps a two year old off his feet to play a game of tag mere minutes after meeting. 

He understands dude time with his boys. 

He watches me. 

He brags about his kids. 

He comes to church with us. 

He sits through musicals. 

He wears jeans like a champ. 

He is not afraid of heights or dangerous situations or fires. 

He tells me he loves me, and he means it. 

He rolls in a minivan. 

He drives 45 minutes to get home when our stove makes a funny clicking noise at ten pm. 

He reminds my girls they are beautiful. 

He says "bless you" when I sneeze. 

He's mine. 

Thank you for being a seriously excellent partner in this parenting experiment. Our kids are rad. They will always be better people because you are their dad. I didn't mean to rhyme, but you are worth it. Happy Father's Day Mike The Man Brewer. 

Priorities

I am reading a book. I've talked about it here before. It's called Anything by Jennie Allen. Please just go read it. But while you wait…

I want to hear God's voice clearly, so it's louder and most prominent in my life. I don't though. I hear the enemy sometimes. But most if the time I hear all the nonsense around me shouting for first place. I feel like a cartoon character. I jump up and can't decide between the two (or twenty) options before me. Too many choices. But only because I consider them worthwhile, even if its for just a second. I whip my head around so fast, from distraction to distraction that I can almost picture those little birds circulating over my head. It's dizzying. 

But it's not God's fault. It's mine. If I listened better. If I knew him better. If I was quicker to discard what I know is the fluff and not God's will, there would be no birds. 

But I don't. Not yet. I have heard him here and there. I try to give him credit when things go well. I don't often question him when things go "wrong". But I think he wants us to know there is more to knowing him. 

I had a brief conversation with my brother about one way to honor God. He said it was honoring to capitalize the pronouns we use for God. I said I didn't think God cares about that. I get his point, but I'd imagine he has more important things he wants us to focus on than the capital H in he. 

It's simple. 

He just wants everything. He wants more than five minutes of uninterrupted eye contact. He wants our hearts, so that we are about his love and not our busyness. 

If you are uncomfortable or restless where you are, it's because you might be doing it wrong. Jennie Allen compares this part of our life to newly hatching sea turtles. God whispers in those little sea turtle ears and tells them about his big and perfect will for them. The ocean. It's huge and bigger than they can even imagine. It's a blessing they know because God whispered it to them, not showed them. They don't even know other baby sea turtles in there neighborhood who have ever been there. But they believe God's promise, so they struggle forward through the sand. Past predators. So far away. And finally into their promised land…er. Ocean. 

I am a baby sea turtle. Watch me dig. 

This is the Day

After a string of incredibly busy days, we are wrapping up graduation junction with a trip to Las Vegas. My father is turning 60 at the end of this summer, so we are headed down early for some quality conversation and hugs. 

We are taking him out to an amazing place just outside of Vegas called Spring Mountain Ranch where the Super Summer Theatre performers will put on The Music Man. We will bring dinner and celebration dessert and lay out in our cozies under the stars. It will be a nice break from the heat. 

We are also going to visit one of my besties and her little family. I say little because her people are short. Preschool, toddler, and one month old. Thems short. I am going to do my best not to squeeze that littlest peanut too hard. I might make her mamma sign a waiver exempting me from responsibility. After all, I didn't make her so cute!!

We also get to catch up with The Baldwins and their newly adopted daughter who already makes me giggle. 

Beyond these plans, I got nothing. I just want to be in the water and shade and air conditioning. 

I'll post pics, but don't be alarmed if we look like we are melting. Vegas is on the border of hell, so it's to be expected. 

Ps. Maybe we will eat salsa and guacamole as well. Probably. Yes. Actually. Yes. That will happen. 

I want to be Nehemiah

Before you remind me I am a girl, let me clarify and say Nehemiah is a go-getter. God said jump. Nehemiah did it and added a round of push-ups on the end for good measure. And while he was doing them, he convinced hundreds of men to do it with him. It's like he sent an invitation to crazy town, and people looked around and knew this goal, this dream, this desire was just what being a Christian looked like in action. 

I want to be Nehemiah. 

God spoke to him, and before he dared utter a word, he prayed to God for wisdom, guidance, clarity, words. 

I want to be Nehemiah. 

God called him to such an outlandish task, he had no hope of completing it without God's absolute favor. So he asked for it. He believed in it. He walked in it. Scoffers be damned, he didn't follow them anyway. He followed God. God be blessed and pass it along. 

I want to be Nehemiah. 

He managed to motivate men to volunteer their efforts, muscles, energy, and eventually their lives. He knew what they were fighting for, and he keyed into that purpose and spent his breath encouraging and committing to them. One writer says it this way, "He invited them to play a role in God's story". Whoa. What? 

A role in God's story? But I do that! It's called parenting. It's called mentoring. It's called discipleship. It's called following the prompting if the Holy Spirit. It's called using my gifts to bring God glory. 

Nehemiah did all of this and said, "yes," to being part of God's story. And he was granted favor. 

His goal was not only God approved, but it was a part of God's story. That wall was protection. That wall was God's glory, and we see that repeatedly throughout this story. Men built the wall with tools in one hand and a sword in their other. I never face this level of opposition. And it shows. I am never as invested in whatever I am a part of in the same way Nehemiah and his men were passionate about building this wall. 

I want to be Nehemiah. 

As I step into the shoes of this new ministry, I find myself faced with so many of Nehemiah's same obstacles. The difference between us right now is that I am not Nehemiah. I am working on it. 

I want to be Nehemiah. 

Post and orders, remain as directed

 So, tonight I was listening to a guy named Philip De Courcy, a very Irish fellow. He's an excellent speecher, and looks not at all how I pictured him. He talked about where we get our orders. Most of us have more than one order giver in our lives. If you are married, sometimes the directives come from the spouse. If you have a toddler, you know that you find yourself taking orders now and then before you realize that tiny turkey is not the boss of you. And if you are a Christian, even if no one else knows it, you get your order from God. 

My advice is that you listen and obey. However, my example on the matter thought it was Opposite Day. (Why my auto correct changed the capitalization on this made up holiday, I do not know. But I often think it should be a day and I am keeping it). 

Anyhow. My example is to doubt. To second (and 3rd and 4th) guess what I think God said. Especially when I don't see anything working in what I feel is the right direction. You know what else I learned about myself?

I sometimes try to quit people before they quit me. I close up. I build a wall faster than Nehemiah if he had two good arms, and I bunker down inside where it makes me feel better if I quit first. 

I have this idea God gave me. When I was a kid, until I was well into high school, if anyone asked me how many kids I wanted, I would calmly reply, "10." I wasn't kidding. Then I met my only child husband, and plans changed. Sort of. 

As you can see by my seriously awesome pictures, I have five kids. If we are getting personal, I have three babies we don't talk about often. It's not as raw, but it still hurts. We lost three little peanuts. I never asked God why. He was ready for them, and it doesn't change the status of their parents. Those are my three babies. Even if they never lived outside of my belly. So I have eight kids. 

And about three years ago, I felt like God dropped a nugget of desire in my lap that we should consider adopting. There is more to this story, but it's not the time for that. 

I dreamt of a little boy. Since then, my husband teeters on the edge of hysteria and crazy enough to happen depending on his day. Also, he threatens sincerely to steal our friends' adopted blondie little girl. He wants to have her over for dinner. He wants to buy her presents. He cries like he is her daddy when she sings on stage or burps the alphabet. He won't admit it, but I think he secretly wants another girl. 

I say we both get our way and we add two more brewers so we can reach that magical number, 10. 

I declared it. Not like bankruptcy. Like full of faith. Like Joshua giving orders to the sun. Like Jesus yelling for Lazarus. Like my six year old hollering "CAN SOMEONE PLEASE BRING ME TOILET PAPER?!" Loudly. With strength. With conviction. I wrote about it. I prayed. Fasted. Held tight to promises. 

And three years later. Nothing. Except my unfulfilled desires. Oh, and nearly everyone I know gets to adopt. But not me. 

My heart wants to quit before this dream quits me. What if it never happens and then I just look like a fool? 

 

Philip De Courcy. He talked about the soldiers guarding the tomb of the unknown soldier in Arlington Cemetery. I'd imagine it's even more emotional than the regular cemeteries. I'd like to go there and watch the changing of the guards. Because these guys know their orders. And in the same way God is so faithful to bring reminders and keep his will heavy on our hearts, so do the guards. They are guarding the remains of soldiers from two different wars. These men couldn't have a tombstone like everyone else because we never knew their names. Just their bodies. We brought them home and put them in this tomb which is protected night and day. Always. 

The soldier walks 21 paces. Turns and pauses for 21 seconds. Then he walks back the 21 paces to his starting point. He does this repeatedly until it's time for a changing of the guard. 

When his replacement comes, after the new guy carefully inspects his weapon, he asks "what is the directive?"

The soldier says,"post and orders remain as directed." Every time. 

It's what God is saying to each of us really. Just about different things. Mel Gibson gave his own spin on this phrase in the movie The Patriot. "Stay the course." 

Remain as directed. 

Stay the course. 

Because there may be pain at night, but joy comes in the morning. And God's fulfillment. 

I am grateful for my work while I wait. I am grateful for the ways God is preparing me every day. I am grateful that my work is not as monotonous as the soldiers in Arlington Cemetery, no matter how noble that job is. 

His boundaries for me have fallen in essential places (psalms). 

Remain as directed. 

Stay the course. 

Amen. 

Listen Here People

I have something to say. Well, probably, but I cannot think of it straight off. So I'll ramble on, which, jayehs, is a great song. Thank you Led Zeppelin. You have helped me through many a night.

Ramble One (or two in case you thought that Zeppelin bit was a tad random): This week I am finishing my first session of professing. Most of you know, but any of you newbies may not have heard I teach English as a professor at the local community college. It's the most favorite of every job I have ever had. I feel it is the most worthwhile career after being  wife and a mom. And. I have to quit. sad. sad. sigh. Tomorrow is my last night. I don't think I can handle my day job, homeschooling, and teaching four nights a week. Not yet.I am still praying that maybe I can fit it into my daytime routine, sooner rather than later. But now I know that God has given me this passion, and I am grateful he opted to let me in on that little secret. Many people miss those whispers. Lucky for me I wear hearing aides. Or, I will soon.

Ramble Two: My hearing is going. I am missing out. People speak, and I am that old lady grunting, "HUH?!" And mumblers? Forget about it. You could be saying something that would save the planet, and I won't be a part of it, because I can't hear you. I believe in healing. Two high school girls prayed over me that my hearing wouldn't even be restored, but that I would receive new hearing. I hope they didn't mean hearing aides.

Ramble Three: I got a text from my friend Liz today. She lives in Florida. I met her when we both lived in California, way back in the day. She is awesome. Weird. Always available when I need to hash it out at 3am Pacific/Standard time. Thanks Liz. This one's for you.

Ramble Four: I don't at all believe in reincarnation, but if I did, I would want to come back as a bald eagle. Those guys are feisty. They fight like ninjas!! I could BE a ninja, that's fo sho.

Ramble Five: I have to figure out how to make a slideshow of about a gazillion pictures of my students. It makes me tired to think of it, but it's on my list of to-dos. That and about a trillion other things. It's tough going from one job to the next. Especially when my new job has two compartments. I am researching and working and changing and planning and meeting and dealing. All while trying to finish up my current job as kindergarten teacher and Adult Basic Ed/ English as a Second Language teacher. Oh, right, plus all my kids have end of the year nonsense, and people need me. Vacation for me means no one needing me. I haven't had that day yet. I am hoping that comes soon. When I picture it happening I am on the porch of my hotel room that overlooks the ocean in Hawaii. Or, I am on a train running through the country sides of Italy or France. In both cases, no one is needing me.

Ramble Six: The Next Food Network Star begins next week. My DVR is all set to record.

Ramble Seven: I still can't find my cards. The outline of my book is on those cards. Years of work. Missing somewhere in my house? At the coffee shop? Being used as a book mark? I don't know. Lord, please help me find my card. I want to be obedient. What should I do? "Dig another well." Ok. sad. sad sighing. I will.

Ramble Eight: I am outtie. See you in a week, Liz. AH just kidding. But let's give it a couple days.

Coming to a Close

So many things are coming to a close in our life right now. Some are direct, but some are happening to people around us.

Friends having final babies (or so she thinks)

Nephews graduating

The school year

My daughter's first year of high school

My first year of full-time work

My first year ever of full-time teaching

My two mid-kids are ending elementary school

Hopefully my little kids' last year of school outside the home until high school.

But with all this comes new. God is faithful like that. He is the God who gives and takes away. And we should count every minute of that joyfully.

He takes sickness. He gives health.
He takes jobs and gives new ones.
He takes houses and gives homes somewhere else because we realize home is where the family is.
He takes kids and makes them grow up and gives us adults we are proud to call son or daughter.
He takes our sin and gives opportunity for growth and life.
He takes us as we are and gives us love we hardly deserve.

He is faithful. For everything he is taking, I anxiously await what he plans to give.

The biggest gift I think I will be given is time. Time with my husband and time with my kids. Such a priceless gift.

So is this leaf bouquet my twelve year old Elijah made me at the park the other day.

New

Many things are new in this land. I don't mean your land. I mean our land. "This land" is what Sam calls any happenings that affect him.

New job.

New church because of new job.

New family dynamic.

New shoes. Well I hope so.

New hours.

New relationships.

New.

It's all new. It will take me a bit to pull myself up from my Bootstrap's bootstraps, but with new comes hope. I like hope. It could have been my middle name. I might decide it's my code name and wear a super girl shirt with an H in the center. I could rock it. Lets just agree and move on.

My official title is Children's Ministry and Preschool Director at Hillside Foursquare Church. Because of the nature of the job, we will be switching churches to be in that community.

We started back today. It ruled. They had pastries and coffee during the service and nachos after. Come eat. Come drink. Come nacho.

Our dynamic changes because my kids currently attend the private school I work at. But that discount doesn't extend to no employees, and that's ok. For the past six months I have had the desire to homeschool again. So, we are going to. DID YOU HEAR ME FRIENDS!! I get to homeschool my babies. Who aren't actually babies at all, but they are mine. And being their mom is the best job a girl can have after being The Man's wife. Best. Just the best.
So I registered the four youngest in K12- an online public school. We dominated that program about two years ago like O'Doyle rules the woods. Izzy will stay in her program in the IB school she is at and represent the Brewers from there.
I'll devote three-four hours a day to my kids' education instead of the current nine. Nine hours on school is silly. I am all done with that.
New shoes? I see a Goodwill trip in my future.
New hours. I am required to be on campus for 25 hours each week. What I do with that time is up to me a long as I am getting my work done and our teachers feel valued and are learning still. That's my job. To give them opportunities to grow.
Instead of the schedule I keep now, 44 hours per week, I will cut that nearly in half
Dear Lord, you are so good to me. Thank you for my family and my church and the chance to serve them. Help me not to screw it up. Amen.

Oh. And this picture? This is my daughter hugging redemption. God is amazing. Tell your friends.

The Rules Should Apply To Everyone

Tonight I taught a class of seriously awesome adults. Every Wednesday and Thursday, for a few hours, I trade in my kindergarten hat, my wife hat, my mamma hat for an adult basic education hat. That's a big hat. I teach English as a second language to a group of people who are anxious to learn. They work harder than most people I know. They are rad.*
I asked them to be confident in themselves and the direction they are heading. And as I spoke the words, I realized these same rules need to apply to me too.
It's so easy to give advice. It's so easy to stand on the outside and know what someone else should do. But we are kidding ourselves when we say we are confident or that we KNOW how we would act in a situation we have never been in.
Sometimes God says move. Even when it doesn't make a ton of sense, God says move, and we have the choice to listen. But we have the choice to stand still and ignore him.
This time I am going to move. Both feet.
One

Two

Three

Dive.

*i love the word "rad". One time when my brother and I were in middle school, we were at a family picnic. A cousin or some same aged relative ran up to my brother and said, "you're rad." He smirked like she wasn't telling him something new.
Another obscure relative of the tween age came up and said the same thing. "You're rad" and then giggled hysterically before running off.
My brother turned to me and stared at my face, imparting the wisdom of a knowing man. "These girls see my greatness" his eyes seemed to say.
Finally, a voice of reason showed up in the form of a ten year old. She giggled like the others, but this time she said," do you know what R.A.D. Means?"
Of course we do. And we said so.
Her: no. It stands for retarded African dog.
Me: bwahahahaha. Oh. My side.

Linking Up With a Gypsy: Brave

Brave: start:

I want to be brave, really. Sometimes I stand at the edge of the diving board (theoretically of course because I scarce know how to swim in the deep end) and let my toes hang over. I stand and practice bending my knees. Arms up. But I just look. That isn't being brave. That's planning to be brave, but planning to be brave isn't brave either.

When God speaks, and you stand, and God speaks, and you take a step with your eyes squeezed shut, and God speaks, and you peak through the squint, and God speaks, and you reach your hands out in an opened position, and God speaks, and you feel the weight lift off, and God speaks, and you open one eye, and God speaks, and you open the other eye, and God speaks, and you step forward with more surety, and God speaks, and you stand tall, and God speaks, and you pick up the pace, and God speaks, and your heart feels poundy, and God speaks, but you do it anyway, and God speaks, and you realize you are running toward His voice not looking left or right or down, only up because everything else is too terrifying. That's brave.
Stop.

Directions:
Write for five minutes with no editing or over thinking. Just write on the given topic.

Full disclosure: I didn't know how to spell surety. I looked it up after my five minutes was up. I was way off.

Anything:Day1

Our book club has begun. Officially. I love the atmosphere at Starbucks. My hazelnut latte wasn't too bad either. The best part though was being there with my teen. She is cool and loves Jesus. People these days don't tend to enjoy kids being involved in church activities that aren't explicitly kid activities. It's too much of a soup pot. No, church these days prefers segregated soup. So, in keeping with my wild thing side, and our mandate to disciple other generations, I invited teens.
She added plenty to the conversation, and even spoke some truth like a champ.

This week, for those of you who are joining us, we are reading the first five chapters. That is about 25 pages. Maybe less. Order your book on amazon now. Do it. Do it!

Our bookstores here have been bought right out. I know because I bought izzy the last one.

In a few days, I will post some interesting questions. I'd love to hear your answers to them. Meanwhile. Be blessed

Anything

Jennie Allen wrote a book that is jacking up my boundaries, my ease. I have spent a year in a job I have thoroughly enjoyed, but if I am honest, I haven't loved everything else.

My house? Train wreck.

My kids? They could give Oscar the Grouch a run for his grumpy money.

My husband? I almost don't recognize him, but lets leave his mustache out of this.

My hair? No. Too soon to talk about this one.

I don't know why we honeymoonize everything. I looked at the wrong things when I thought going to work full-time was no big deal. As it turns out, I didn't get to stop being a full-time wife or a full-time mom when I became a full-time teacher. Instead, I went from strict priorities to "if I could just find a minute to drink some water or exercise or snuggle my babies".

This life is getting stupider by the nano second and I have no one to blame but myself.

I haven't worked out in a month. I don't have time.

It's been weeks since I wrote in The Book. I don't have time.

Bible reading? Here and there, but I am so tired I can't convince my eyes to stay open at the same time.

Confession: I haven't washed my sheets within this month. I know I need to. But, you guessed it. I don't have time.

I want to be radical. I want to follow Jesus and mean it. I want to be willing to say ANYTHING when Jesus whispers "Shontell, I see you. What will you do for me?"

If I am tired, I want a life to be changed because of it.

If I am drained, I want salvation to be the cause.

A quote from Anything, " from this point on things are changing. I am living for the moment when I will face you. I want to get to heaven out of breath, having willingly done anything that you -God of the universe-ask…anything."

Amen.
"Praise The Lord. Holy Crap"-Ellie Grace

Linking Up With The Gypsy

Type for five minutes flat without editing on one topic. Today, that topic is Friend:

Go

My friends, the girl in the PNW and the other girl currently living in Vegas, keep me company all day long. I like it. Tonight, the southern most friend sent news that her contractions were getting closer together. Now, normally we group text, the three of us, and it's all a lot of nonsense (which I am clearly a fan of) but this is real news. After I get off of work, I check in with them only to find they have left me the present of no less than 50 texts. usually more like 75. Can you even imagine how many we will generate if one of this tri-fecta is in labor!!? I am only slightly excited.

That's a lie I just made up myself. So, friend. Right now. I ode to you and your new little peanut. We will be praying. I will be sleeping restlessly. I will be dying to know if my baby birthday guess was right. (I chose the last week of April). Word to your mother.

Stop.

In my bed

My belly feels like there is a rock sitting in it. I blame the coffee. It was super strong. So naturally I drank two cups with a sugary muffin on the side. Why do I do it? In the wise words of Dr. Seuss, " don't ask me, go ask your mother".

Tonight is family night. We celebrate Mondays by giving it a funny name and watching the Cosby Show. Taco Tuesday doesn't work because we already have Partridge Family guitar Tuesdays. So instead we have Taco Tuesday Monday. It's the same really. Only different. I can't explain things.

I just know I want my belly ache to quit so I can eat spicy rice with a substitute of ground turkey for beef. And I want zero negative repercussions. Which have nothing whatsoever to do with percussions. It should. But it doesn't. I can't explain it anymore than I can explain why my heater keeps coming on when the thermostat clearly reads OFF in big offensive letters or why they keep making Land Before Time movies.

It's not like we didn't like the first one. It was great really. It's just that maybe it's time to let that one go. There are other story lines. Step to as to writing one.

My stomach is making funny gurgling noises. I think I am hungry. Don't try to make sense of me. Just love me through it and make me a sandwich. With a banana on the side. And a bottle of water. And a Kit Kat.

Happy Earth Day

I love the Earth. I really do, but this holiday is so obscure. We teach it in school. Usually we plant things. Which I think I will do with my students tomorrow, but I sort of feel like Ricky Bobby on Talladega Nights when he is giving his first interview and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. His race was brilliant. Well played. Fast even. But what comes next?? I hear you Ricky.
I guess we could talk about how to take care of the Earth, but kindergarteners aren't supposed to learn about recycling and what not. That's a first grade lesson. I don't want to steal that teacher's thunder.
Maybe we will talk about words that rhyme with earth. Worth. Firth. Birth. Ew. That got awkward fast.
Ok. I have no choice. I am running short on time, and it's clearly an emergency situation. I will have to hang out on Pinterest during church.
Anyone else find themselves in this situation? No?? Just me?? Hmm.

Jump

Rule: Write for 5 minutes flat on the prompt “Jump” with no editing, tweaking or self critiquing.


Jumping. I jump. I jumped. I am jumping. Am I? Sometimes I don't feel like a loan reed. I want to, but then I remember I am small. But do I jump like a small person? I love two year old jumpers. They are so full of excitement, they build the anticipation, but then they jump and their feet don't actually come off the ground. I hope I don't jump like a kid. I see my direction. I could sort of fall into it. Stumble. But I want to live with purpose. Is it purposely or purposefully? Purposefully. I am sure of it. Here I go.

One.

Two.

Three.

Jump.

 

Things That Don't Come Naturally to Me

• waiting.. for anything
• keeping quiet for lengths of time
• exercise. Today I wrangled 13 kindergarteners and a bus full of elementary kids for some time at the "zoo". Shouldn't this count? I think I just made my own point.
• Love for cleaning. Oh, sure, I want it to look clean. But in the same way a meal cooked by someone else always seems to feel better going in, I feel better going into my house when it has been cleaned by another.
• skirts. Although I see their attraction (ease, cute factor, etc.) there are problems in their general make up (wind, wedgies, unshaven legs, etc.)
• girls. I don't always get them.
• doting. I am so unfamiliar with this term, I don't even know if I spelled it correctly. I am going with it. I watch some parents at school who are so obliging and willing with their kids. This is usually the point when I lean down to my own child and say, "Go get your own lunch box out of the car. I didn't leave it there. I have my lunch right here." And to further prove the validity of my words, I hold my lunchbox in the air in an obvious fashion until my child asks me politely for the keys. Mean? I know what you are thinking. What a bully. Well, I am anti bullying, to be sure, but I will ask you to revisit our group when that doted upon child is looking for a Kleenex and realizes our school bathroom doesn't stock them. 

DUS (doted upon student): I need a tissue.
Teacher: Ok, you can go to the bathroom and get one.
DUS (leaves and comes back, clearly still in need of a tissue): I couldn't find one.
Teacher: Did you go into the bathroom?
DUS: yes. But there aren't any.
Teacher (speaking slower by the second):  Hmmm. Was there something ELSE you could have used as a tissue?
DUS: uuuum...I...hmmm. I don't know.
Teacher: Please think. Think about what you see and what you use the WHOLE time you go in the bathroom. What could work?
DUS: I.... (chirp. chirp)
Teacher: SIIIGHING
My kid: OH MY GOSH. TOILET PAPER!!
DUS: oh. ok. Can I get some toilet paper?
Teacher: doh!
True story.
I am the way I am. It's for the children.

I am not the teacher in this representation. And no children were harmed in the making of this story. The DUS remained remarkably clueless, and I inwardly apologized to my own child that one day she would be running the country next to this clown.

Anything? That Seems Like a Lot

I awoke just now to rain on my window pane. I don't live in Seattle, so it's easy for me to say I love it. It is 3 in the morning, and I have been listening to this Nevada downpour for an hour. That's a big deal here in the desert.

I want to just lie here and soak it in like a sponge, but my mind wanders in a million directions. Some prayers. Some unsettled business. Some reminders of what needs to happen from my to-do list. Some mulling over of the books I just finished.

I want to, but I can't turn of all the thoughts. I am thirsty for water. I am thirsty for more. Of everything.

My husband is not home and I miss my big kids. Two are on a mission trip and one is living life in Southern California with some friends. They will all be home by Friday, but that seems far.

Ten caterpillars are morphing into butterflies in my classroom. Right now. I am worried they will turn before my students can come back to see it.

Teenagers flash through my mind intermittently. I pray for them. You pass through my mind, my friend and reader. I pray a blessing on you. It's ok if we haven't met. It's best if we have, but I pray either way. Be blessed.

I can't find my cards. Over a year ago, I outlined my entire book on twenty index cards. They are my secondary most important resource to writing this book. And I cannot find them. Please say a prayer on that one for me. It's giving me a belly ache.

All of these thoughts, but really I keep circling back to one.

I pray about my future. I think it's changing. There is a need that warrants filling. And God is unsubtly dropping hints. Smooth. Normally, I would say this isn't for me, but the fact that I am so vehemently doubting my ability for God to use me in this space says otherwise. Like Moses.

"You've got the wrong guy. Teenagers?" I say.

"Yes. They like you. You are weird, but relatable." He says.

"But, I am an adult. Aren't I supposed to be scared of teenagers? They can be weird. Oh. Er. I see. But they come with face piercings. Uh. Hmm. I see. But I want to be liked. If I boss them they won't think I am funny anymore." I stammer.

"They don't need a peer. You are WAY too old to be their peer.," he says with a smirk.

"Thanks Lord. That's nice. I feel good now."

I can almost feel his shoulders shake to hide His laughter. He adds, "they need someone who isn't afraid to love them as they are, where they are, and who won't be afraid to tell it to them straight. They don't need bossing. They need Me. They need a leader to sympathize with their problems but hold them accountable to love others more than themselves. Their focus is all wrong. They need someone to give them a little shove because right now they feel like they can't make a difference. But you know better, and I want you to tell them."

"Lord, I don't want to be Moses. I don't want to say 'you have the wrong guy'."

"Then don't," he says simply.

"Ok. Protect my relationship with my own teens. I don't want them to feel like I am butting in. I don't want them to feel like I am invading their space. They are my priority over other kids."

"Just tell them that. Be Frank. He's great."

"Funny. Ok. Use me. I'll do it. Show me what it looks like. Show me how. When. Because I think it's going to start small. As do so many good things. I feel myself jumping the gun heading to the end of rather than the starting point."

"Pray. Just ask. And, hey. Ask each day. Not just once. There's a lot to talk about. If this is the only time we discuss it, you'll miss things. I will show you along the way. In my timing. For I know the plans I have for you. Did you catch that? I KNOW. those are the important words of that sentence. You are saying it wrong. Your emphasis is on the plans instead of me. Be willing. Be here. Everyday. Look for it. Be the part of Moses who did it afraid, but he did it still. Are you willing?"

I should pause and see if it's true, but I just say it, " Anything. Lord, I will do anything. You loved me first. You love me still. You love me when I am a total spaz. I will do it afraid. Anything."

Beginning the first Saturday in May I will be leading a book study on Jennie Allen's book "Anything". We will read a couple chapters each week, and meet back here to discuss what we get out of it.

If you are local, we are meeting at Starbucks on Saturdays at 8:30 each morning. Books are available at your local Christian bookstore or through Amazon.com.

Begin now by asking yourself, "What are you willing to do for God? How big? How scary? How self-sacrificing?" Bring your answer May 4th.
Contact me for further details.

Specifically Speaking

Sometimes I get so convoluted with words and noises and confusion that I don't hear what's being graciously whispered into my ear repeatedly. I know He is whispering, but I can't make out the words. I know what you are thinking. "She hears voices? I am out."

But the truth is sometimes God will talk, and if we catch him mumbling, it's probably because we are too busy and focused on all the wrong things to take a minute and ask for clarity. Not just clarity. Confirmation and understanding.
So, he's been mumbling (aka I haven't been listening really) and it wasn't until I spewed advice that I realized where I heard that awesome advice before. God said it.

To me.

Right in my ear.

And I didn't comprehend his words, only that he was speaking.

So not only am I a bad listener, but I also do not obey. And I steal God's advice for myself and pawn it off with a straight face like I am Dr Leo Marvin looking for a ground breaking new book (please watch What About Bob. It's for the children).

I am full of it.

Frick.

Happy ending? Today is a good day to start tuning in and looking up.

Just try it. See what you notice. Tell me what you hear.

Nonsense- It's why you are here

So why don't I just lay it all out there:

A) I want Stephanie Meyer to finish writing Midnight Sun. I don't care if she publishes it; just send me my own copy. I don't need a cover. I need more than 12 chapters of life from Edward's point of view, that's what I need.

2) My kid and I are taking another kid and another lady to a Women of Faith for teens conference in Roseville this weekend. I am so excited I may forget to do anything else. We leave Friday. We get to go to the movies, too. We are watching The Host- a Stephanie Meyer production.

3) I like salad. I don't know why I don't eat it more.

D) I am procrastinating taking a shower. It's not that I don't want to spend time with you. It's just that I have not combed my hairs in two weeks. I have washed it, but I just towel dried. This makes sense with my hairs. Not yours probably, but with my sweet fro, I don't need to comb it all the time. I would never comb it if I could get away with it, but the longer I wait, the more helmet shaped it becomes. Just trust me on this. It's science.

6) My heart hurts when little kids don't have food.

F) My heart stutters a little when I see a bald little brown boy. It's not something I am doing. It's something my heart is doing. Dear Lord and Mike Brewer, I really think I need a tan kid with the ability to grow a sweet fro. Send a boy and a girl; I don't mind. But make them mocha, and make them love me. The end. Oh, and make them potty trained.

and 11) I miss you people. I miss being here more. I miss your comments and your sassy remarks. I miss sitting on my computer scrolling all your blogs with my coffee in hand. Spring break is coming. At one point we will be down to two children. Call me crazy, but it's as if the clouds are parting to allow me to catch up. My heart feels happier already.

 NOTE: the author and finisher of this nonsense recognizes that these pictures have little to do with the topics at hand (or not because they are nonsense) and more to do with who she was thinking of at the time of this publication. If this disturbs you, follow her. See that button? push it. Push it real good.

Mrs Hannigan

I am pretty sure she is standing over my shoulder.

She's God's number one on my case of whines and whimpers.

Example:
God wakes me up because people need prayer or I was supposed to do something midday, and I opted to postpone that plan, and God woke me at night to fulfill it. To which I whine "but it's in the middle of the night." Then I hear Mrs. Hannigan mumble and mock over my right shoulder "but it's in the middle of the night".
Yah. She's drunk still when I picture her (am I the only one who didn't know she was drunk? I literally thought she liked to stir and drink her bath water).

Anyway. I mulled and chatted. Prayed and read. And. Awesome. It's not 3a.m. Anymore. Now it's four. I am wide awake.

I should go write. I should go read my bible and finish up my bible study. I'll probably stumble to the bathroom and read my book (not in the bathroom. Once I get back in bed).

I could take a shower and comb through this beast of a hair do.

I would clean something, but that sounds awful.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Story of my life.

Happy Easters

I will always put an S at the end of Easters. Thank you Nacho Libre for life changing knowledge.
So many people celebrate Easters, and I am glad. Even when I feel like shopping at the Costcos, but they are closed for the day, I am glad because it means they are celebrating Easters. More people should. Close down I mean.
Take me for instance. I am on my couch. I got onto my couch as soon as I got home from church. I only got up to make scalloped corn and eat a spoon full of frosting. I watched Adventures in Babysitting with my three oldest children. Then. I closed down. Big time. Crashed right out. It's what every Sunday should be like.
It's not easy. The sabbath. Not everyone can handle it. But we are all supposed to be in it. And close down. Like the Costcos.
Just try it. For one whole Sunday, refuse to work, say no to chores, lay around and hang out with your family. Go to the park. Eat. Watch a good movie. Have conversation. Invite a friend or another family over and close down.
Happy Easters.

Blech

I made up that word. It's the sound I make when something is gross or lame or more than I feel like handling at the moment.
It's the noise in my throat when I hear Beth Moore tell me she waited 16 years between hearing God's call and finally stepping into it.

It's the sound I feel when I think of my friend's 17 year old who just arrived to his temporary, but long term, room. In prison.
It's the feeling I have listening to my stomach grumble knowing two of my boys threw up this week (one on the counter. One on the carpet. Cool. )
It's the feeling I have all the way to my bones when God so subtly reminds me of the writing I have before me that I am procrastinating like a freaking champion.
It's the noise that represents the disappointment when I realize I am living out Paul's ever cryptic "I do what I do not want to do…" which always makes me think of Abbott and Costello.

It's the sound in my gut when I know I am supposed to be doing something else. I don't know fully what. But I miss my kids. I am either supposed to stay home and give up on this full time life of teaching or pray for better organization and six more arms to be a full-time working mom of five children.

Blech.

I went to a job interview because I love teaching English as a second language, and there was an opening for a part-time professor. Two things happened.

I spent one hour in the chair: ten minutes interviewing and being offered the job and 50 minutes counseling my interviewer. She is nearly old enough to be my mother and a wife and a mother of one child. She is a very impressive woman who spent that time asking me how I maintain balance of work and family. Amazingly, I had some answers. Rather God knew what she needed to hear. She was amazed when I said I couldn't work four nights a week because my husband and kids are my priority. She couldn't understand my choice. She spoke of her hurting daughter who always complained of missing her because she worked so much. It was a glimpse into a life I have been mindful to avoid, but also a life eerily mirroring parts of my own all of a sudden. Under my breath I mumbled. Can you guess it? Yes.

Blech. And then,

I caught a glimpse of an alternate life.
Maybe I could stay home. We could lose our car payment (which we loathe anyway) and I could homeschool my littlest rugrats again and make a little extra dough as a professor and (and this is just the cherry) watch my new neighbor's brand new. Teeny tiny. Gray Brown baby. What? That's his name. I am not kidding, nor would I want to be. He's the best baby currently in the world.

I would cut my salary in half. I would lower my expenses only a smidgeon. But my family would be overly blessed (if I do say so myself). And then today wouldn't have ripped my heart a bit tinier and made the word Blech wrench in my throat.

Instead it would have felt perfectly at home spending time with Samuel. I teared up in the backyard when he helped me fill a bird feeder. Something is not quite right.
Blech.

Is This What It's Coming To?

 A blog post every two weeks? Who ever heard of such a thing?? Working moms, that's who. I have many questions, most having nothing to do with anything significant. Instead, I will leave you with this roll of pictures as proof that I am actually living life and not holed up on my bed wishing for summer.

This girl drinks coffee. I think it's too late for her. Judge me if you'd like, but she is gearing up for Stanford. She is one of the most amazing people any of us will ever know. She is brilliant without being socially weird. Stars aligned for this one.

 This boy is leaving. I hate it and I love it all at once. It hurts so much I might just cut that heart right off my sweater and give it to him when he leaves. He is beautiful and smart and hilarious and I am so grateful that he is the oldest boy in our family. He has always been my favorite. His mom said I wasn't allowed to play favorites, but when you grow up with a kid, and wake up ten times a night to give him back his pacifier, and try to give him a little smooch and he slips you his 8 month old tongue, you tend to stay connected. It works because there is a chance he is my favorite over my own children even! Good luck buddy. Have fun finding your dad, er. Going to college.

 If I weren't so old, this girl and I would be identical twins. She is just weird. The end.

 This boy is showing me he wants to be Joey Tribbiani when he grows up. And no. He didn't use these air quotes correctly. "Good morning" Brilliant.

 Oh, do pirates not lead your school chapel? Hmmm. Sad. Of course this boy posed with the girl.

 And what the what?! This girl (left) attended her first formal dance. She is about to be 15. She went with a gamut of girls. Or a gaggle of girls. Or...what do you call a largish, smallish group of teenage girls who teeter between "boys have cooties" and "oh. my. look at his arms"? That's who she went with.

Forgetful Lucy

Sometimes I feel like a character from that movie 50 First Dates. Remember that little gem? One of the most giggle enhancing movies I've seen. Some of the characters have amnesia or can only recall their oldest memories. No new memories.

I feel like that sometimes. Ok. Often. I am forgetting everything that matters. I can't remember my kids as babies. I loved them so much just for being babies. And now I can't remember any of it.

I can't remember what it felt like to date my husband. We have been together almost twenty years. We have been together more years than we lived without one another. I know I loved dating him. I was a giddy idiot. But I can't remember.

I can't remember the answers my kids or students give me when I ask them the question. Any question. And I realized this morning that I am not looking intently enough. I am not paying close enough attention. I am the man James spoke of in chapter one. I have looked in the mirror and, once I turn, I immediately forget what I look like. Crazy? Lame maybe, but not crazy.
Picture the scene.
I am standing on the playground attending to the lunch recess crowd. There's the group of taggers, diggers, ponies, and the jungle gymmers. It's a good time for everyone except me. I want a break. I am watching the clock. I check my watch, but while I am looking a student starts talking. I put my watch down and then realize I looked with my eyes, but can't recall the time.
I look at my watch. One of my children comes up to hug me. I put my watch down and again I wonder what time it is. Are you sensing a pattern?
I HAVE to know what time it is. I look at my watch. Determined to pay attention. I look but look up right away because someone is crying. A boy fell down.
And guess what. I still have no idea what time it is.
I am not looking intently enough.
I want to be intentional. I want to look with eyes that see. I want to see and retain and be able to do something with all of that.
I want short and long and forever memories. I need to sear them into my mind so I can keep them forever.
I'll let you know how it goes.

Balancing Acts ain't for Ninnies

I don't know why it never occurred to me that I would still be a full time mother, with full time mother needs, dealings, responsibilities, handlings, and beeswax once I became a full time worker. I don't mind working and earning my keep. And really, I LOVE teaching. So much. My husband and I both remark regularly how blessed we are to be in careers we love.

The problem is that if I am fully devoted to teaching, something at home tends to slip. Usually that is my husband, but only because he doesn't get in my face and whine or act out irrationally when he isn't cuddled enough. I appreciate this about him. Apparently some husbands are this way. Weird but true.

Anyway, tonight I interviewed for a position as a part time professor teaching English as a second language. It's totally my bag. But as God typically does with my mouth, our conversation ended up sounding a lot less like her interviewing ME for this position of teaching and more like her interviewing me asking for parenting help.

I told her I would LOVE to teach four nights a week, alas, my priority is my family. She agreed that this is as it should be, and added, "How do you keep them priority with so many kids!?"

We discussed teenagers and compared her one to my nearly three. She clutched her chest in mock freak out at the though of more than one child. It wouldn't make a difference in my house if we had one or five, or seven for that matter. God covers what we can't as long as we are making the choices we need to in order to make family a priority.
I explained that this looks different in every house, but in ours it's family dinners and being around to talk about nonsense when our kids have saved those purely nonsensical stories all day just to share them with me. "You are priority" looks like little notes to my family members, showing an interest in their accomplishments, and reenacting scenes from Mulan on video (only I sing off camera while Samuel moves his mouth in perfect timing) while we wait for dinner to cook.
"You are priority" reeks of balance. Everybody must have it. Every BODY must have it. Don't let your teeter totter too far to the top while you chase after career goals and your perfect tan. Teach your children balance. Use your time to love others. Really. And pray for wisdom about balance. It's no longer just an act in a circus.
Because I am baby stepping my way toward balance, I am fully prepared to celebrate my boy's birthday tomorrow.

He's 12. Or he will be in about 20 hours.

Sometimes I confuse even myself

Do you ever look around after you buy something great and ask yourself "why didn't we do this sooner?!"

We were given a bed by some friends years and years ago. We planned to get side tables. Those are important. Instead we didn't. We were given a set. Not as pretty as our bed, but we don't complain at free furniture.

Then. The day came when we sold those bad boys and we used cheap shelving from target. It looked cute. Did the job. But we passed them on when we moved. Again.

Since July, we have had no side tables. Cardboard boxes, but no tables. HUGE boxes. But cardboard is cardboard people. It's dusty in a way that cannot be cleaned. It's dented down the center and it caves in creating a hole from which I cannot retrieve my most favorite possessions. Chapstick. Pens. My arm. Cardboard doesn't discriminate.

The day came when The Man said we could buy some. "Be wise with our funds woman!" He said. Well. He didn't. But I wish he spoke with me like this.

We shopped. We price checked. We made a face like we were smelling a glass of milk that came from a cow who got into the onion pasture. (Thanks Napoleon). And then we left. Because guess what. Side tables are dumb expensive. It's a level of silliness I want no part of. Except that I really want side tables.

Many stores and thrift store diving passed and no good.
The cheapest we found was $50 for used and $79 for new. And we didn't remotely like those.
Then we went to ikea and my room is amazing. For reals. So pretty. And organized and helpful and efficient and grown up. No longer am I a bachelor drowning in cardboard. I'm an adult! With adult furniture. Amen.

Dear Reader

Today my husband recapped a conversation he had with himself recently. (I can't explain this). He figured out we spend about 1/3 of our day sleeping, 1/3 of our time working at a paid job, and much of the last 1/3 of our time on caring for our children, our crap, and responsibilities we don't even really care about. This leaves about 20 minutes a day for something meaningful. Really? How about some extra sleep, because that makes me a little tired to even think about.

Here is what I have been spending my 1/3+1/3+(1/3-20 minutes) on:

The private school at which I work has foreign exchange students who want to learn English, so they can stay here for a decade and attend university. For some, it happens at a slower pace. So, three days a week, I tutor after school.

My eldest kid transferred from said private school to an amazingly intense program at a local high school. It's an International Baccalaureate program which translates to really smart, really hard, and two years of college credits when she graduates. Win win. I drive her some days. Pick her up others.

My husband has been picking up every shift he possibly can. We have debt that is weighing us down. Suffocating actually. We are done with it. We are taking the long road and paying off debt before we get into a new house. We are saving a deposit and funneling money into our savings account. Unfortunately it's a very small funnel with more of a leak than a flow. Baby steps. This translates to full time parent. Of course The man is still around to pick me up with sweet conversation via the telephone.

In the next three months, over half of us have birthdays. And our anniversary. And Easter. And spring break. It's usually a bit hectic, but this year is a little different because I work full time. Oh. And by different I meant worse. We are throwing them a surprise Harry Potter themed birthday dinner where the entrance to our party is through a brick wall that reads Platform 9 3/4.

My book. It's not taking as much of my time as I want it to, but still. Time.

I don't know about you, but I would really like to have 1/3 of my day back. This is crazy.

The book I am Reading

Sometimes I read a book, and I underline and take notes and it is exciting. Other times, I purchase a book and have it sit on the box I call bedside table. Trying it on. I don't read it. When you read it, you have to do it. If you sing it, you have to live it.

I knew I needed time to adjust and prepare for this book. It's called Anything. It's written by Jennie Allen. I think I still like her. I can't say for sure yet, because I am only about 2o pages in. If she keeps making me sigh heavily with conviction, the tides could turn. I may pull out my angry (with myself) eyebrows and blame her for her honesty. I'll call it judging, but she doesn't know me. She is just delivering the goods. It's my armpits that are all sweaty with frustration.

Here's a quote:

"I did wonder sometimes, when I closed my eyes and let it get scary quiet, if I was missing the best things, the things that mattered most, because I was afraid. "

She means she was saying no thanks to the gifts God gave her because they hurt or were scary or seemed too sad. Most have the desire to love others, share a cup of coffee, and maybe even help someone move. Hospitality. That's a light hearted spiritual gift.

Mine is words. I speak. I write. I dream, and God asks me to say something about it. The problem is what He wants me to say is usually a little intrusive. It's cut. its dry. I have to work to make it encouraging. It's uncomfortable. And not just for them.

I have caught myself thinking the words "take it away, Lord". I wanted a new gift. How about hospitality. I could make scones (no. Actually I can't). I could beautifully display some cookies (also a lie). I could enjoy having women over for breakfast (it's as if I have never met myself and watched with my own eyes as I said help yourself and watched my guests get their own cereal).

The fact is, this is my gift. God gave it. And he can take it away, but he would rather help my heart to handle it so he can be honored. In my life. And theirs. Whoever "they" are at that moment. By saying no thanks, I am Jonah. That guy, who every time I read his story, I think he is a doofus. Because he was.

I don't want to be Jonah or any other "got it wrong" from the Bible. I'm a work in progress.

But I am swimming to Ninevah if I have to. Who's goin with me?

Jesus told the little girl, who everyone thought was dead, to get up. I wrote it on my arm. I am going to keep writing it on my arm, because I think it's what I am supposed to be doing. Getting up. Go. No more staying. I am done staying.