Occupy Till I Come

I read a phrase tonight that came across as a military directive: “Occupy till I come.” 

Just those four words. But immediately I stood up a little bit taller. My ears perked, and I wondered at God’s meaning with this phrase. I felt like it was a challenge thrown at my feet.

How easy would it be to translate this into something that suits my needs? For all of my days I could twist this into something simple, lazy, chipper, bold, brash, and maybe some days not at all Christ-like. 

Phrases like, “Live it up,” or, “You only live once,” pop in my mind. We could modernize it and give it a nickname. “Sup? OTIC. I’m doin’ it.” Naturally when it’s come to this, it’s come to failure. Pretty sure God intended something powerful when he breathed out, “occupy till I come.”

Just before this phrase appears in the book of Matthew, Zacchaeus is the butt end of the gossip train, and Jesus is at the center of what everyone perceives is a scandal. 

There’s gasping and chest heaving and dinner. Which seems totally out of place, but Jesus invites himself to dinner with a true shady character, and of course the shady character accepts, and then believes Jesus, and his whole household is saved forever. And do you know why? Because first Jesus was occupying until it was time, and then Zacchaeus and his entire family realized what it meant to, “occupy till I come.” First they stood a little bit taller, and then their ears perked up. Suddenly they were hooked. 

They watched as Jesus came to be about the Father’s business. They took in his actions: He lived to win souls by loving for real. Man, that’s just better than any Kool-Aid out there. It’s such a small sentence and a huge summons all at the same time. 

“Occupy till I come” means you take what you have been dealt, handed, blessed with, and you do any and everything God asks. 

Say hello to that person. Take food to that family. Invite that girl over for dinner. Pay for that woman to go to retreat. Compliment that guy on his work. Hug it out with that co-worker and tell them Jesus was and is and is to come. Stop and pray with that neighbor. Babysit that young mamma’s kids. The list is unending.

All Jesus did was invite himself to dinner. What a rude gus. He didn’t even wait to be invited. He couldn’t. He was too busy occupying.

Updating

The gym? Still killing it, but now I mean I am lying down on account of a low grade infection who seems to have taken up residence in my kidneys. Don't worry, I am healing and chugging the liquids. 

And sleeping. Also I just rubbed today's mascara in my eye. 

Awesome. 

Happy Friday everyone. Make it a keen one.  

It's 11:10; do you know where my sleeping pills are?

OK! Fine, I don't take sleeping pills. Really, I take about zero pills. I'm one of those essential oil weirdos and proud of it. Might make that last saying a shirt. And my friend who started me on that crazy weirdo essential oils actually works for a screen printing company, so she could totally hook me up!

Not the point.

My point is it's late at night. It's been a very long day of wrangling children to school, wrangling a classroom of sweaty 5th graders who still don't seem to know they out number me, trying to muster the self-control not to eat the candies our secretary hides in her desk just for the teachers (hangs head in shame), birthday parties, gymnasium workouts, and the eating. OH the eating.

I have a busy life. Good but busy. I am busy with all the things I want to do, and possibly a couple things I could live without (aka dear dishes. Why can't you be more like paper plates and handle yourself?) But recently I joined the gym.

It's January; why shouldn't I? Of course I should. And I am killing it. And by killing it, I mean I am more aware of my rolls and I can' t stop eating. I feel one of those cyclical stories about to happen. I call this one If You Take Me To The Gym.

If you take me to the gym, I am going to work up an appetite. And I will probably ask you for an omelet (which means I will just snack on these pretzels and mound of almond butter while it cooks). Of course he saltiness of the pretzels will make me thirsty, so I will ask for a glass of water.

When we are at the fridge getting the water, I will notice the orange juice and ask for a small glass. After I gulp down my juice, it will remind me of how much I love oranges and that I still have at least three minutes left until my omelet is finished, so I will eat a Cutie.

That itty bitty orange will remind me of that time we had mini-muffins, and I will ask you to check to see if there are any in the pantry. You look and find one. It's blueberry and delicious. My omelet is finished, and as I carefully adorn it with A-1 sauce, I realize my mind is elsewhere.

I begin eating my omelet, all the while thinking of those blueberries. And, naturally those blueberries remind me of a most delightful spinach salad I took to lunch last week which just so happens to be filled with quinoa, spinach, pumpkin seeds, and, you guessed it, blueberries. I'll ask you to go to the fridge to get me one.

There is one left, which I devour in three minutes. It's amazing, and I have to tilt the miniature plastic ball to get every drop of the vinaigrette dressing. I realize I haven't even bothered to close the refrigerator, and peak in just in time to see the almond butter on the top shelf. Seeing the almond butter makes me want to dip a salty snack in there, so naturally, I head for the pretzels. And chances are, if you give me those pretzels, I am going to need a refreshing drink of water to wash them down.

I realize this story doesn't get me back to the gym, but let me just be frank and tell you I am going to the gym about 4 out of 7 days in the week, and this runaround comes from one day's workout. Now multiply that fat camp by four workouts and let me lie down. With a smoothie. Because I am hungry.

All

the

time.

And because I am a Gooney, Goonies never say die. No. Goonies say, "Can I get just one more bite of that?"

What's A Motto With You?

The best part about that title is I am not even really speaking of mottoes. I couldn't help myself.

Moving on.

I am a total New Year's resolution girl. Every year, growing up, we used to sit with paper and pencil in hand anxiously. We would divide the paper into three sections: short-term, medium-term, and long-term. Then my entire family would spend 30 minutes or so racking our brains trying to think of what we hoped to accomplish in the coming year. It was such an organized event that we would pull out the previous years' goals and see where we accomplished or straight went awry.

My parents taught me the craft of a goal board. They taught me what baby steps were well before Bob Wiley came on the scene. They made a resolutionary out of me.

Yes. I made up that word. Just now. And I stand by it.

I am completely and rebelliously a resolutionist.

I did it again. Did you see that?

Yeah, well, you can thank me when you drop that new word off at the water cooler tomorrow at work. People may smile and call you "Quippy". I would like that.






Moving on.

I do my best to make my goals just close enough to attain them and not so far off as an endlessly dangling carrot. This line is fine.

I also insist that the goal be worthy of my time. Because, guess what. Extra time is for napping. And guacamole.

Last year my goal was to floss every night. I grew up in a non-flossing home. It's been a difficult habit to embrace. I used to turn to floss when I was desperate. My floss and my priest were basically on the same level: a need to know basis.

OK.

I am not Catholic, but my point is I never flossed regularly. I'm a new woman. That goal was attainable and worthwhile, and quite frankly cut about 20 minutes off my bi-annually dental cleaning appointment.

On the heels of this success, heading into the new year, I was thrilled to come up with a new resolution.

Everything I thought of seemed too cliche. Too BAH. I mean, I will likely get back into the gym. I will start bringing my water bottle to work. I broke up with donuts ages ago. I have added a silly amount of vegetables to my diet already. And I cut out all the foods to which I am allergic or intolerant. BO. RING.

And then my friend said something a little crazy and against my usual. She said she isn't a resolutionist. OK she didn't use that word because I hadn't made it up yet. But she would have. She could have. She should have.

Anyway, she doesn't choose a goal. She chooses a word. Isn't that wild?

Maybe it's normal, because as we were texting, another girl hopped into our conversation and said she does that same stinking thing. WHAT!? Yeah well. All right then. I can get on board with this. I think.

I can forgo a year of resoluting. Just one year. I think.

So. I've spent the better part of the conversations in my head throwing out words that represent my year to come. Some were deep. Some were sheer lunacy. But I think I found it.

My word this year is
COURAGEOUS.

Mostly the kind found in Joshua 1:9.

Have I not commanded you. Be strong and very courageous.

I've stepped into a few uncharted territories. I need to pull myself up by my Bootstrap's bootstraps and be courageous. This is so clearly a goal I will never achieve on my own. I'll be looking up. I'll be jumping in. I'll be screaming like Bob Wiley on his first elevator ride. And hopefully, by this time next year, I will be able to look back and mean it when I say, "I was courageous."

Conversations Before Coffee

I have limits, people. I can't handle certain conversations before coffee or 10 aye em. 

The lady next to me just said the phrase "making love sounds better. Sex is too worldly." 

It's before the coffee time, but she is a 70 year old mother to five; she can say anything she wants and we listen. Usually I am with rapt attention, but Ellen. It's before coffee. 

It's the morning after the birthday party for one of my best sisters. I would add her link here, but the blogger app also has limits before the coffee hour. But if she was here she would say great words like, "you might be a wreck, doll, but you're God's wreck" or "you just gotta put one foot in front of the uthah. Now. Pass me an olive". 

Do you see the people I have to keep up with? I'll never make it. 

Send coffee. 

Send waffles. 

No. Just send the coffee. 

With "syrup". 

Darn You Perfectly Brewed Americano

Some places just know how to coffee. Yes. I used coffee as a verb. Try and stop me. No don't. I bruise like a peach! 

Photo cred: I stole this photo from the web. 

I had a meeting at The Coffee Bar last night around 4:30. Just a quick stop to meet a new friend who gave me the low down on all the information I'll need for a smallish major new ministry with which I am helping. 

Awaken. 

I love them. These women love Jesus in a major way: with Grace and practicality. With heart and hands. Faith trudging through disbelief. 

So far I am all talk and coffee, but come Sunday I am jumping in. Two women are temporarily setting aside their high heels and heart breaking career of turning tricks at $200/hour to take their GED. 

Too big to grasp? Too contrary? Too "why should they even bother if they are going to go right back to that old life?" 

Yah. Well. I'm not in their shoes, but I know what baby steps are, and these girls are taking them. And for some reason, God is letting me help. 

So between an angelic Americano and this buzz of "what am I getting myself into? My heart is about to get vulnerable, I just know it. Lord, is this another mascarade that seems like I am the one helping, but really I'm about to get helped?" I find myself not sleeping. 

All through our meeting I kept saying, "the devil wouldn't be trying so hard to keep these girls down if they weren't about to make a huge difference for Christ. He wouldn't even care." And it's true. 

And by that, I mean if you don't feel the devil messing with you in some way, just maybe you don't matter enough to the kingdom. Just maybe a couple of 20 something year old prostitutes are closer to changing lives for Jesus than you are. 

Right along with that though? If you are enduring some heavy about now, there's a good chance you are in God's will. Youve tapped your chest and said "come at me bro" to a real enemy. Stay the course. You aren't alone. 

I feel shaken up by this. I feel like these girls are on the verge of something amazing. Noway am I getting left behind. 

I wanna jump up with my hand raised and shout "Let me come!" Like a typical little sister. I'm pumped. 

Photo cred: I stole this photo from the web. 

And then. I can't sleep. So I hang out on my twitter and the worst news story comes across. 120 children died last night. Six teachers. 

Taliban (tomato). These jack asses (tuh-mah-to) who think they are changing the world. And they are. And honestly, there is little I can do to change how they spend their lives. Waste their passion and faith. 

I can be their opposite. 

Now I see. A few more pieces just slipped into the puzzle. I'm to be contrary. I'm to be their opposite. 

When they spew darkness, I'll shine light. 

When they breed hate, I'll work harder for unconditional love. 

When they bring death, I'll breath life. 

When they marginalize, I'll be a peacemaker. 

When they shower depression, I'll pour on joy. 

In the same way they are too big and too far for my hands to affect them, my God is too big and my faith is too committed for them to touch me. 

Get behind me satan; you know your place. 

Louder Isn't Always Better

I listened to a girl preach this weekend. It was an exceptional treat for many reasons, the least of which being the fact that I actually got to sit in service and partake in church like a usual suspect. When you are in charge of the kids in your church family, you miss a few weeks. But she was great. I shouldn't be surprised really; for years people have been saying, "you know Ally, right? You two would hit it off." 

They mean we are the same. They mean we appear to have the same giftings. 

Honestly, I've said hi from afar, but I've never met her. I can't even tell you why we've never officially been introduced. I certainly don't need help speaking to strangers or strange people. She lives out of town and visits often. But she became part of our church when we were off church planting with my brother and then still when we moved to Idaho. She got married and left right as we moved back. Bummer. And after listening to her speak, I mean it. Major bummer. 

We could have been all those things Tiffany sang about in the 80s when rock love ballads were legit and steeped in hairspray and emotion. And lip gloss. I think that we could have been good friends, but there's a little nagging voice that reminds me she is an introvert. 

What? Wait. Hold yer phone, Tiffany. 

I need a minute to decide if I can be friends with an introvert. 

Ok. Yes. We need each other, actually. Ok. ACTUALLY I need her. Maybe it's just me, being part of the loud collection of humans called extroverts, but I've always had the understanding that introvert equals negative and they are really just striving to become extroverts. I feel maybe Ally knows something I don't. 

She isn't striving to be an extrovert. There's nothing wrong with the very vert she already is. Additionally, I am not trying to be an introvert. However, I am striving to mimic some of her greater qualities. 

Humility and genuine heart. Truth speaker. Clear. Meek but not a pushover. The meek shall inheret the earth. Meek isn't bad. Meek is the new patient. 

I am so grateful for the skills and talents I have been given. I am thrilled for the chance to be an encouragement and light and sometimes even that straight forward, in your face, never minding words truth sayer. I want to be who God created me to be. I want to embrace my extrovertnessingly * and be used in the best possible way. 

I love that Ally was just being her. Whichever vert you are, embrace it. We all need each other.  

*extroverts make up words. Embrace it. 

Ready. Steady. Quick Recap

Ok. First we

Ran into Effie Trinket and the angry chick from district 7. Late night showing of Hunger Games: Mockingjay part 1. 

Then we

Witnessed downtown become just a smidge brighter with the lighting of the tree. Followed by

Laughing. Pizza. And a lot of laughing. When I say a lot of laughing, I don't mean someone told a joke and we laughed longer than the average person for that minute. I mean in our house we laugh SO MUCH. When we aren't laughing we are singing. And sometimes we are yelling. But only sometimes is that yelling angry. And to be fair sometimes the laughing is facetious and full of mocking undertones. And I'm sorry. I'm just sorry. 

And then it got real. Folks, I'm going to level with you. I was a little shocked to look over and see The Man had taken on this position a little early even for Thanksgiving. This man doesn't sprawl. I should know. I've secretly and obviously watched his every move for 21 years. Ok. More obviously. I don't even try to hide it!! In fact, yep. I'm about to confess something. When we were in high school, I heard he worked at Walmart. I went every night for a week. Never saw him once. I was so irritated that I sucked at stalking a guy who barely knew I existed that I very uncooly asked when he was working and where I could find him if I happened to stop by. Insert air quotes where you think best. You should probably use more sets than you think for that sentence. Also. Who even thought to check the garden section??!!

Seven times a charm, I tell you. anyway. One thing lead to another and 

We are winding down another year of being Mike and Shontell. Sometimes I lay in bed and wonder how he found me and what ever made him think that he should break up with my best friend and ask me out. Out of my hands people!!! Would you believe me if I claimed innocent bystander? 

A Drop In the Ocean

I've accepted that my arms are the lengths they are. I mean, I am 38. They aren't going to grow. I accept it. I know my limits. I also know that even though my arms measure a smooth five feet seven inches in wing span, my reach still has potential. Today, I decided to stretch my skinny hands right out in front of me and into my closet.

I am joining women across the world to raise awareness for girls held captive in the lie and bondage of sex trafficking. The statistics would cause your heart to bleed.

Awaken can fill you in on those and what is happening here locally to put an end to this darkness.

Dressember can help you be a drop in the ocean. Sound too small? So is a mustard seed. So is a chicken pock. So are two tiny little lice bugs who love each other very much. Do you get my point?

Dressember is a drop in the ocean that raised $165K last year. I am putting my dress on one leg at a time just like all the other girls on this team. You can help by sponsoring me. Make a flat donation or pledge a dollar or more for each day I wear a dress in December.

For some girls, this is easy. For me? Not so much. I lost my heart in a pair of 501s when I was in middle school. I have committed to love them forever, and it is going to break their hearts when I ground them to their hangers. Dear button flies. I can't quit you. Except for the month of December.

All of the money collected will go to these guys. 

Won't you help me send a message?

Oh Rebekah

I love reading through history. Women and men that changed the world and made mistakes and learned and were still so integral to writing a great and crazy, all wrong and all right, history. I appreciate their accomplishments; I welcome the challenge to match them footstep for footstep.

Maybe I appreciate their screw ups just as much. Or more. I am good to learn from them in this way, too. This is the perfect scenario in which to live vicariously. And the amazing thing is how the worst and craziest seeming people get their stories repeated just as often. We know the infamous as well as the famous. We need to. Past improprieties are the bricks that build us.

This morning, I was reading about Abraham and his guaranteed blessings. Could you imagine that? Guaranteed blessings? Well believe, yo. We have it. When Abraham died, God sent an angel to tell Isaac he would be receiving all that was promised to his father. Whoa. What an inheritance. Brilliant work, God.
Then I moved on to reading about Abraham's daughter in law. When Abraham sent his servant to Canaan to find her, he was beyond confident in God. He prayed, his servant's prayed, and they all believed. This bride-retrieval-mission was bathed in God's will. Like a poorly kept secret, they were all in on it.
His servant arrived after days of traveling and spoke first to God when he arrived at the well. "Let the one who is to be my master's wife offer me water and go on to offer to water my cattle" (Shontell's English Translation). Bam. The first woman who approached, Rebekah, spoke his very words. The bible says even before the servant was finished speaking to God in his heart Rebekah walked up, water jar in hand.
Her words were God's words. Her heart full of the Holy Spirit before she ever met him or he ever really came here to live with us. She was smack dab in the middle of God's will for her. I know that feeling. It's overwhelming, like the ceiling can't hold you.
Nor your skin.
Your heart feels like a cartoon that keeps pumping through your fancy shirt. You're sure everyone around you can feel it. It almost hurts because you know you don't deserve it. You remember the bricks that build you.

Despite that, you sense that God is bigger in you than all of that. I am so grateful for that. That feeling that I will never again be that ignoramus out of God's will. Away from God's path. That assurance that I am complete in God's will and untouchable. And, yet.

I find myself falling for that little selfish whisper. Which turns into a murmur. And then we are having a heated dispute before I cave and believe him because that little evil genius is just a little bit louder than God. Suddenly, I am Rebekah.

Rebekah who went from so engrossed in God's will that her words were mirrors. Ventriloquy. Not a magic trick at all, but full blown Jesus Freak. But time passes and smoke clouds the glass, and she. me. I am at it again. Far from the will I know. Believing the nonsense that threatens to consume me.

Maybe I have never loved one of my twins more than the other. Maybe I have never taught my boy to lie to his brother and then his father in order for him to get ahead and cheat my husband out of his blessing and inheritance. But do the specifics matter? My sin creates space. A deep void only fillable by the one true lover of my soul. The guy that never quits or gets tired of holding me up. Even when my faith is tiny and I feel I need to take things into my own hands which inevitably fail. Grasping is always a mistake. White knuckling this world leads to death.

As always, it comes down to my choices. How do I want to be remembered? Would it bother me if someone, anyone, walked in the room and overheard me talking, working, watching, listening, debating, disagreeing, convincing. Who am I gonna be? More Rebekah or less of her?

In this minute, I will admit I am closer to the version I don't want to be. But I am letting the death consume me to make more room for the one who really matters.

Numbers. The Fall Version

7- the number of Fridays left until Christmas. (Sorry. That one was shocking. I should have started with something calmer). 

1500- ALMOST the square footage of my new house. 

7- the number of people living in that little space. 

55+- the number of times I look out my window and smile because I live in this house with this view. 

8- the tree count in our backyard

5- the number of times I have watched You've Got Mail in the past month. 

28- the number of 5th graders I teach everyday. 

5- the number of afternoons I leave with a huge grin from my job. My heart is full even on the toughest days. 

38- the number of birthdays I have celebrated in my lifetime. 

20- the number of red and white roses my husband secretly delivered to my home while we both were at work. 

Too many- the number of times I underestimate that man. 

60- the number of boxes we have unpacked in the last week. 

3- the number of furniture pieces we still have to sell because they don't fit in our new house. 

One Bajillion- the number of candies we collected last Friday. 

6- the number of costumes I created or coordinated to lend to one of the best Halloweens to date. 

1- the number of times I have seen The Box Trolls. 

2- the number of times I want to see the Box Trolls again before we buy it on DVD and make it one of our annual October movies. 

11- the number of boxes we have left to unpack. 

11- the number of times I've thought to myself "do I really need whatever is in this box? Can't I just chuck it?"

Look around you people. The best two months of the world are about to happen. Come enjoy them at my house. My coffee and my couch are always ready. Especially if you live far away and want to have a jumbo party sleepover. 

Yah. You heard me. Jumbo party. 

The Perks

There are so many perks to my life. We all probably focus on what's holding us back more than the perks, so I'm giving today a new spin. 

First of all, I get to do the job I love. I was created to teach. The end. 

I teach in all sorts of ways and this role has looked differently over the years, but I have just always been a teacher. Right now it's in a classroom full of 5th graders. I love it, and I love them. 

And because that's my job and it's fall, I have had a week off. Round here we call it fall break. 

Never heard of it? Yah, well this here is Nevada. We do weird stuff. Like this picture. And these vests. And these poses. 

We also stumble upon insanely amazing ice cream parlors. Whoa, Nelly. You just saddle that horse and sit for a minute. If I were you, I would order the espresso chip dipped in chocolate. Come to mamma. 

Sometimes we snuggle. And watch 30 episodes of Friends. WHAT?! WE WERE ON A BREAK. fall break. 

I said that already. 

How you doin'? 

Let's just say that there were discoveries, and IHOP, and movie after movie, and theatres, minutes of miniature golfing, and snuggles, Friends, real life friends, eggs, Eggs, and on and on. 

Sigh. I'm full up. My cup runneth over. 

Now, husband. Please come home. This week has sucked (sort of) without you. 

Are You Sure About Them Five Minutes

There's a chance this post will hold random interjections of movie quotes. 

That was your fair warning. 

Some of you that spend time with me know I can participate in a conversation using nearly all movie quotes. The crazy part is most people can't tell I am quoting. This happens with my kids. But, now that they are old enough to watch some of the classics, they seem to be catching on to the truth. 

YOU CANT HANDLE THE TRUTH

See? I told you. 

I've introduced my teenagers to some great movies. What About Bob?, the old school Star Wars, Ferris Beuller's Day Off, Say Anything, Uncle Buck, So I Married an Ax Murderer. Just to name a few. 

Here's what usually happens:

I'm sitting there, happy as a clam to hear them giggle along with some of my most favorite lines. They seem to be taking this classic under their wing. My kids are going to make it! They are going to be the only ones in class who get 80's and 90's pop culture references their teachers mutter beneath their breath. I'm feeling like a superior mother. 

Then I hear "what the heck. You say that line all the time!! Don't you make anything up yourself? I've always thought you were so funny!"

:crickets. Life flashing. Sweaty armpits. Clammy palms:

"A sixth grader chased me on his bike. When I got exhausted and fell down he wailed me with his shoe for an hour."

I calm myself, restart my heart, and try to mimick Bob Wiley in his morning mantra: I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful. 

Did my kids just say I am not funny? 

Doh. 

Did I make a terrible mistake letting them into this carefully studied land? 

GAH. 

Has the time come when I accuse them of smelling like pine tree perfume and they know I am simply quoting Tommy Boy? 

Say it ain't so. 

I've decided to restrict them to VeggieTales. 

Sixteen year olds still like VeggieTales, right? 

Focus

I've yelled this word to my son at least six times tonight. I won't tell him what to do anymore. I just yell, "FOCUS!"

It's because, like so many people, he can't focus on what really matters. I say, " Son, read me this poem."

I look up and he is poking himself in his nipple with his pencil. 

I say, "write your words once each. "

I look, and he is attempting to silently open a to-go wet wipe and rub down his legs. Silently. 

I sent him to make his lunch and proceeded to read a few articles. I need a break.

 I came across one about a girl who is offended that her high school principal appears to play favorites. He has double standards for boys and girls and spouts cliche quips to both genders. 

"Modest is hottest!" Really dude? Pull your head out. I get your point, but you should promote high school girl hotness in no way. Zero. Not at all. It's creepy. Now, go shave your mustache. 

"Boys will be boys." Uh. This sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen. Again, I see your point, but you need to broaden your scope and realize you hold a position of influence. Are you really wanting to turn out a class of mediocre men from your campus? How about raising the bar and changing it up a bit? Be original for once and decide nothing less than gentlemen will be roaming your halls. 

Whatever you do, get some new sayings. Quick. 

I skimmed the article and had to laugh out loud because I realized I needed someone to yell, "FOCUS!" At me. I think I know where Sam gets it. I'm valid. Look. 

She's making a statement. Good for you, sister. 

::dramatic throat clearing and whisper::

Honey, if you are going to make a bold statement. Go for it. Say it however you like. However, if you want people to take you seriously use proper grammar. Why the capital A? Even more pressing than the idiotic remarks from your principal? Your use of made up words in your protest signage. "Alright" is not actually a proper word. Two words: All right. 

I know what you want to say right now. You want to tell me it's in the dictionary. Just because a word is in the dictionary does not proper a word make it. 

In the same way that millions of maroons pronouncing it "expresso" is also incorrect. If you want to be a stand out, go against the flow, and make yourself seem more correct than the one you are standing against, win with your brain. Don't be the missing line from Alanis Morissette's Ironic. 

Also. Where's your shirt? 

Eventful? We don't do subtle

It's as if we don't understand the meaning of the word. Calm? Plain? Neutral? We scoff at ordinary. We don't even like the word extraordinary around here because it really makes us think of the words extra ordinary. (Seriously? Who was the thinker on this word? I have never understood it). 

First of all, it's coming on fall. Oh beauty let me behold you. And let me watch You've Got Mail until I have to replace the movie because I've watched it too many times. Again. For the fourth time. WHAT?! It's really great. Kathleen Kelley is my family. Like her, I like to begin my sentences as if we are already in the middle of a conversation. 

Like her I love bookstores. Like her I love Pride and Prejudice. I too get lost in the language. Thither is where you'll find me. Watching this movie. Again. Oh felicity. 

Anyway. My job? Great. Better than great. I love it. I'm full. Of gratitude and tasks, but hey. Full is full. Always better than empty. Which is actually how I felt tonight when I talked to my husband. We said our "love yous". We chatted about business. I may have even spouted a catchy verse of I miss you I miss you, I really wanna kiss you". Then I had the feeling that I had something else to tell him, but instead, I suddenly declared "nope. That's it. I'm empty." And I meant it. Where the knowledge of these words which I type is coming from I know not. See? Empty. 

But it's because my brain is taking ion just. So. Much. 

New jobs take a while to settle into. New co-workers. New bosses. New expectations. New room. New students. New paperwork. New routines and schedules and people needing you. New. 

I'm getting there. I'm not the furthest behind, so I will say I am winning. Except that it's 9:40 pee em and I'm falling asleep while I type and wishing one of my  kids would get out of bed and turn off my bedroom light and brush my teeth. And since they are here, brush and floss my teeth. 

Did I mention we are house hunting? That's simple. No emotion. Not at all time consuming. 

I lied. In that last paragraph. Sorry about that. 

We are in fact house hunting. But the rest is just false. 

So completely off. 

It's consuming. I don't want it to be. But I think I'm a junkie. How can I not be when all of my house is packed and we are just waiting for the words "we accept your offer and we would LOVE to pay your closing costs." My movies? Packed. 

Ok. Not You've Got Mail. What are you, nuts? 

New job. New house. New neighbors. Go big or don't stand near me. 

"TALL. DECAF. CAPPUCCINO." 

*these pictures have zilcho to do with this post. We do baseball. Thought you'd like to know. 

Working Mamma

Yep. I'm one of those. But there is something in my brain that won't even let me think it. I still picture myself as a stay-at-home mom. When someone asks what I do, my instinctive response is to say I'm a stay-at-home mom.
Anyone else have this problem? It's like I am seeing myself as I used to be.

Like that one time I was kind enough to take the time to make this new lady at church feel welcome. I said hello and struck up a cordial conversation. We totally hit it off, and then she said what everyone says when they talk to me for more than eight minutes, "Wait. You have FIVE kids? How old are you?" To which I quickly responded, "19." Uh. What? To which I even more quickly said, "Uh. No I'm not." I had a conversation with myself while she stood there confused. I am pretty sure she thought I was drunk, a wee stoned, or simply a liar. There's a chance she won't be coming back to church for a while.
Ok, so just me then. Great.
Well, this blog has been through a number of mini-makeovers, and I am hoping to add a new element now. I am a worker bee now. I am a worker, and I have no idea what I am doing. Won't you join me to watch the calamity?

Follow my board on Pinterest: Working Mom Survival.
Follow Shontell's board Working Mom Survival  on Pinterest.

Don't pay any attention to the couple of misplaced pins. I often do my pinning at 3 aye em. 

UP.side.DOWN

That's the weird that has been my life for the past 20 days. Most (all three of you readers) of you know The Man was threatened with another layoff this past spring. Really? What else have you got wonder boy? The devil is sheer silly.
Anyway, they postponed it. Don't ask what that means. We don't know. We don't speak corrupt city council. Anyway, the judge seems to be on our side (the logical side), and he is still working as a fire fighter. Thanks, Lord. We appreciate your provision.
For the past 14 months, I have been the director of a pretty rad preschool with some of the best bosses a girl could ask for. Really. Primo.
After applying for and accepting a job in Las Vegas, and after deciding with 80% of our hearts that we were fine to move back to Las Vegas because Mike was getting a fire fighting position, we realized 20% of our hearts were hurting. So we prayed. We made one of those lists with the volley of goods and not so goods about raising our family in either city. And then, we remembered why we moved from Las Vegas, and we remembered why we chose Reno. Actually, God chose Reno. And our hearts thanked him. So, we just decided. We are staying.

Instead we are putting down roots per God's instruction and later clarification. We are house hunting. 

I also got a job teaching 5th grade, and I couldn't be more thrilled. Seriously. So excited. 

I heard about the position on Sunday night. The one we just had. I was at an Elvis themed birthday party for a ten year old (who is obviously a genius. I mean. How could he not be with Elvis as his theme!!) 

Anyway. Monday morning they called me in for an interview. 

Tuesday morning I reported for my first day. 

Tomorrow my classroom should be fully decorated. 

All while maintaining my directorship, so that I could finish strong. I'm beat. I'm exhausted. I'm in the mood for pizza that I can't eat. 

Here is my class so far. 

I am just so overwhelmed at God's plan. I'm grateful that he has an infinitely better brain than I. 

What can I do?

I don't think we ever really know what we are getting ourselves into when we say YES and take on a new task. I know I don't. 

I tend to be a grass-is-greener type oh gal. So, I appreciate that my husband chases after me shouting the logic. Anyone else here take the logic being shouted before you will listen? Yah, well. Whatever. 

I have taken on new tasks. Not today. I don't mean that sort of present tense. This one is more of an ongoing swoop where I reach my arm out and take on one thing after another. 

And many times when I repeat my life in words people say I am crazy. Maybe. But I'm not for a second going to sit by and make the smallest ripple possible. I plan to be affecting. Effecting. Affected. Infectious. 

Idle is a four letter word. At the end of this life, I want my maker to play the video of my life and say, "She did what she could." 

I'm not here to play it safe and small. I'm here to do anything to bring people closer to the truth that Christ is worth every minute of their day. 

To every thing there is a season. 

A time to stand up and shout. 

A time to lean in and be quiet. 

A time to follow the logic that begs to be heard. 

A time to put your toe in the water and walk across that dry land. 

A time to heed a friend's words. 

A time to follow God's words instead. 

I want to do what I can. What are you doing today?

Ever have those weeks you feel you need to spend a Sunday night gearing up? That's me. 

I already know I have to make play dough. But I also am scheduled to get my car in the shop. So grateful to have a back up vehicle. Carting seven kids around can get old pretty quickly. Errr. Back up. Did I say seven? 

Well yes I did. We have two extra teenage girls this week. I'm tempted to leave them pillow mints each night and never let them leave. "You know what that means? Jumbo party" 

Is there a bad time to quote Uncke Buck? I think no. 

I am on the hunt for a great salsa recipe for my Vitamix. But I'm not eating tortilla chips. My life is tricky. I've been using bell pepper wedges instead. Uh. Yum. 

I need a bathing suit top. I have the bottoms and even a skirt. The rest is arguably just as important. 

I also need to borrow my brother's projector. I need to watch the sandlot in old school perfection: hang a sheet and dangle some licorice. 

Tuesday lake day is approaching. I forgot to clean out the cooler after last Tuesday's trip. I don't want to. It's been too long. It's like that time when Nevil Longbotttom told Ron he left the howler from his gran unopened. The minutes ticked by as more badness built up. 

Ok. I know what you're saying. With the exception to the moldy howler cooler, this vacation has been goofy and great. 

Add three work schedules and two baseball games and I might just take off the my pants and call it a day.