I am studying the book of 1 Peter. Hopefully, it will be a ministry opportunity, so I will try to share without too many spoiler alerts. It seemed too fitting that just as I was studying joy in trouble, our pastor preached on joy in trouble, and many dear friends found themselves in trouble and chose joy. I suppose that is the first point. Joy is a choice. Love is a choice. Peace is a choice. These are not feelings. These are ways you choose for your heart to be; these are attitudes of obedience.
If you have been keeping up on my blog, you know that I have a problem: I am in love with my husband. I am just wild about him. In his presence I have great joy. I know that I can rage in his arms. I can weep in his embrace. I can vent anger, mourn the darkness, and experience a broad range of emotions in his presence. But I always have joy with him. When we weep together, we are in joy. When I seethe with anger, I still choose joy. Because of him. Because of who he is. Because he chose me. And because tomorrow the hurt will be less, the light will break, and he will be there, unchanged in his promise. I have joy with my husband because he is a good man, because he loves me, and because we have the hope of new days ahead.
How much more with the Holy One, Whose love is rivers, Whose heart is bold and unchanging, Whose promise is surer than the mountains that rise around us? How much more joy can we have in the presence of God: the One Who is only ever good, Who loves with the shedding of His blood, and Who gives a hope that is surer than the rising of the sun, that there are new days ahead?
I choose joy; because He chose me.
This is not faking it. This is not putting on a good face, putting up a wall, dawning a mask. You can be real, you can be authentic, and you can have joy in suffering. Christ's vision is reality. His character is truth. And His character, His promise, and His heart bring joy.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Friday, January 23, 2015
Spinning
I awoke last Wednesday morning to my usual alarm at 4:30am. Ruefully wondering what could be accomplished in this world if everyone had to crawl out of bed and emerge zombie-like into the cold shadows of morning at such an ungodly hour like my own nearly undead self, I threw my covers back and landed my feet on the floor ... and then I fell head first into my closet. Thankfully (?), the door was closed to keep out unwanted bulldogs and other vermin. I suppose this means I did not fall into my closet, but rather against my closet ... with my skull. And somehow the thunk did not wake the husband, nor did my subsequent crash-tastrifies. If I hadn't been otherwise occupied, I would have checked him for signs of life.
After recovering somewhat from the concussion, I turned and walked into the bathroom. Like any woman, I sometimes struggle with self-esteem. I say 'walked' because that connotes refinement, which makes me sound spritely and graceful. In truth, like a pinball in an arcade game, I bounced off the the foot board of the bed, smashed into Justin's closet, ricocheted into the dresser, and finally, hands clutching desperately at the walls I stumbled into the bathroom like a hungover frat boy. (No alcoholic beverages were injured in the making of this blog. Remember? I'm running a family blog here.)
Now, I had a decision to make: answer the usual morning call of nature, or vomit profusely. (Okay, not so family. Sorry.) After throwing up nothing (because there's no sickness like empty stomach sickness [which any proper kind of pregnant woman will confirm]), I crawled on my hands and knees back into the bedroom. With trembling muscles I scaled our bed (which thankfully Justin fixed just last week, so that instead of a mattress on the floor I could fall gratefully into, the solace of sheets and pillow stands a loft a pinnacle on a lonely Japanese mountain, only ascended by the most pious of meditators). As I fell to my back and squeezed my eyes shut, I watched the darkness swirl in great curling loops above me. It goes without saying that at this point I felt I had a temperature of about 2804 degrees Fahrenheit, and was deep-breathing, trying to settle my raucous and confused anatomy. The breathing woke Justin.
Insert eye roll.
After a few bleary-eyed moments Justin shifted into nurse mode. He got me water, orange juice, and cereal in case it was related to dehydration or low blood sugar. He proposed that perhaps my blood pressure dropped, and we should try a change of position. (Which, when Abi is not all spinny and nauseous, would have earned him a suggestive little joke and an eyebrow wiggle, but at this point just earned him a couple groans and a dirty look.) And he kept starting to say 'nauseous', but always quickly replaced it with 'nauseated'; because at 4:30 in the morning when the universe decided Abi should wake up on the Mad Tea Cups, she really cares about grammatical propriety. (Sadly, not an entirely sarcastic statement.) Very professionally, he asked me if it felt like I was still and the room was spinning or if the room was still and I was spinning. I answered with a dry heave, and that mostly put an end to the dizzy morning interrogation.
Despite all of this, Justin was truly wonderful. He got both kids out of bed, changed, and fed. He took them to my folks, he checked in on me every two minutes, and he called around to find a clinic open. We drove down to the clinic, and he didn't complain when I kept bumping into him on the way in. By this point I was starting to feel better. The nausea was gone and the spinning was intermittent now. We saw the doctor, and he told us he suspected that it was benign paroxysmal positional vertigo, but wanted to rule out anything more serious first. This ruling out of possibility mortalities included a neurological exam.
If any of you have had a neurological exam, you probably know the purpose is to test the 12 cranial nerves in your brain which control motor function throughout your body. And while this sounds all very prim and proper, the actual performance of a neurological exam is most like participating in a five-year-olds' dance improvisation class after flunking a breath-a-lizer test.
At this point I am too dizzy to sit up straight, and Doctor Dance with his tutu and magic wand is asking me to touch my nose, and wiggle my eyebrows, to kick out the right leg and the left leg, and perform the Macarena (which by the way I am awesome at, dizzy or otherwise). About halfway through the exam I got the giggles. I am sure after we left, Doctor Dance began softly pounding his head on the wall. The finale of the neurological performance is to stand up, feet all the way together, eyes closed, and arms extended out in front of you. At this point I am shaky, spinny, and giggly. I closed my eyes and immediately tipped to one side. I tried again and immediately spilled to the other side. Justin had to stand behind me and set me back on balance every few seconds until Doctor Dance was assured that I did not have a stroke, a tumor, or a brain cloud.
So there was the diagnosis: BPPV. No idea where it came from, how I got it, or when it would subside. So for the next week of my life, I spun. Lots. And I threw up. A couple times. And I got the giggles. More often than I'd like to admit. This Wednesday morning, just as suddenly as it arrived, BPPV made it's exit. With just as little explanation. (Although I suspect, Noah tackling me and smacking the back of my favorite head into the floor while Hannah threw herself lengthwise over my face may have been part of the cure. Thank goodness they don't understand gentle yet.)
After recovering somewhat from the concussion, I turned and walked into the bathroom. Like any woman, I sometimes struggle with self-esteem. I say 'walked' because that connotes refinement, which makes me sound spritely and graceful. In truth, like a pinball in an arcade game, I bounced off the the foot board of the bed, smashed into Justin's closet, ricocheted into the dresser, and finally, hands clutching desperately at the walls I stumbled into the bathroom like a hungover frat boy. (No alcoholic beverages were injured in the making of this blog. Remember? I'm running a family blog here.)
Now, I had a decision to make: answer the usual morning call of nature, or vomit profusely. (Okay, not so family. Sorry.) After throwing up nothing (because there's no sickness like empty stomach sickness [which any proper kind of pregnant woman will confirm]), I crawled on my hands and knees back into the bedroom. With trembling muscles I scaled our bed (which thankfully Justin fixed just last week, so that instead of a mattress on the floor I could fall gratefully into, the solace of sheets and pillow stands a loft a pinnacle on a lonely Japanese mountain, only ascended by the most pious of meditators). As I fell to my back and squeezed my eyes shut, I watched the darkness swirl in great curling loops above me. It goes without saying that at this point I felt I had a temperature of about 2804 degrees Fahrenheit, and was deep-breathing, trying to settle my raucous and confused anatomy. The breathing woke Justin.
Insert eye roll.
After a few bleary-eyed moments Justin shifted into nurse mode. He got me water, orange juice, and cereal in case it was related to dehydration or low blood sugar. He proposed that perhaps my blood pressure dropped, and we should try a change of position. (Which, when Abi is not all spinny and nauseous, would have earned him a suggestive little joke and an eyebrow wiggle, but at this point just earned him a couple groans and a dirty look.) And he kept starting to say 'nauseous', but always quickly replaced it with 'nauseated'; because at 4:30 in the morning when the universe decided Abi should wake up on the Mad Tea Cups, she really cares about grammatical propriety. (Sadly, not an entirely sarcastic statement.) Very professionally, he asked me if it felt like I was still and the room was spinning or if the room was still and I was spinning. I answered with a dry heave, and that mostly put an end to the dizzy morning interrogation.
Despite all of this, Justin was truly wonderful. He got both kids out of bed, changed, and fed. He took them to my folks, he checked in on me every two minutes, and he called around to find a clinic open. We drove down to the clinic, and he didn't complain when I kept bumping into him on the way in. By this point I was starting to feel better. The nausea was gone and the spinning was intermittent now. We saw the doctor, and he told us he suspected that it was benign paroxysmal positional vertigo, but wanted to rule out anything more serious first. This ruling out of possibility mortalities included a neurological exam.
If any of you have had a neurological exam, you probably know the purpose is to test the 12 cranial nerves in your brain which control motor function throughout your body. And while this sounds all very prim and proper, the actual performance of a neurological exam is most like participating in a five-year-olds' dance improvisation class after flunking a breath-a-lizer test.
At this point I am too dizzy to sit up straight, and Doctor Dance with his tutu and magic wand is asking me to touch my nose, and wiggle my eyebrows, to kick out the right leg and the left leg, and perform the Macarena (which by the way I am awesome at, dizzy or otherwise). About halfway through the exam I got the giggles. I am sure after we left, Doctor Dance began softly pounding his head on the wall. The finale of the neurological performance is to stand up, feet all the way together, eyes closed, and arms extended out in front of you. At this point I am shaky, spinny, and giggly. I closed my eyes and immediately tipped to one side. I tried again and immediately spilled to the other side. Justin had to stand behind me and set me back on balance every few seconds until Doctor Dance was assured that I did not have a stroke, a tumor, or a brain cloud.
So there was the diagnosis: BPPV. No idea where it came from, how I got it, or when it would subside. So for the next week of my life, I spun. Lots. And I threw up. A couple times. And I got the giggles. More often than I'd like to admit. This Wednesday morning, just as suddenly as it arrived, BPPV made it's exit. With just as little explanation. (Although I suspect, Noah tackling me and smacking the back of my favorite head into the floor while Hannah threw herself lengthwise over my face may have been part of the cure. Thank goodness they don't understand gentle yet.)
Thursday, January 22, 2015
The Smallest Thing this Side of Asia
My ideal weight is 108 pounds. Or maybe just a little more than that. Random, much?
Allow me to explain. As a child I loved Batman.
... Doesn't that clarify everything?
I don't mean the modern Batman, who takes himself so seriously that he can't spurt flames out of the back of the Bat-mobile. I also don't mean the ridiculous Batman who hangs out with Chris O'Donnell and makes movies so bad, I literally had to turn it off after 15 minutes and rock back and forth in the corner until Marvel came to save me. (Oh yeah, we're gonna nerd out here. Let it go there.) I mean the original Batman movie with Michael Keaton, Jack Nicholson, Kim Basinger, and just enough 'really?' to make sure an eight-year-old Abi didn't have nightmares until she was thirty. (I still do have Batman nightmares. However, at eight-years-old, the Joker leaving me love notes and bringing me baguettes with WAY TOO MUCH butter on them [He's trying to kill me. Even at eight I knew that much butter would kill me.] before chasing me across Niagara falls on a high-wire seemed like the most terrifying thing possible. Now it's more amusing, and I have a little sit down with my brain in the morning and give it the eyebrow quirk. Nightmares have become much less fun as I age. Stupid real life. Ah, for the days when comic book villains were the only thing I had to fear.)
At one point in the movie, Vicky (ugh, that name just screams botox) gets herself in a mite bit of trouble (which skinny blonds in superhero movies never, ever do. So out of character.). Batman attaches some kind of vertical zip line to her (which if I were a real nerd I would know the name of and not just call "the-Bat-Vertical-Zip-Line-Thingy"), to whisk her out of danger. He asks how much she weighs (and really, if the "Bat-VZLT" can't haul Kim Basinger off the ground, why does he even carry it? Does he really think there's any chance in Hades she weighs more than him?). She replies "108, I think."
Somewhere in my little girl brain, something latched onto those numbers 1-0-8. My eight-year-old self determined that 108 pounds was therefore the ideal weight for a woman, who at some point in life might be interested in being saved from mask-wearing thugs (or Yankees fans) by a grown man dressing in tights. (I actually had someone correct me once, saying, "They aren't tights, they are fitted rubber pants. ... wow, that's so much better. I wouldn't dare question the masculinity of a dude in skin-tight rubber pants. Notice how they never show Batman getting dressed? This is why. There is nothing more repulsive than a man putting on tights ... or rubber pants. ... I'm a dancer; I know these things.
After the subsequent butt-kicking and reunion of Batman and our D.I.D. he quips, "You weigh a little more than 108." Little Abi decided that, perhaps then, a little more than 108 was acceptable. Although, I never reached a satisfactory conclusion on what that mysterious acceptable bulk was.
Sadly, Little Abi passed 108 long before she was available for rescue. For some reason I can't shake the idea that this is a good weight. If I was attached to a lie-detector and asked what my ideal weight was, 108 would be the only non-needle-jiving answer. And this with a complete disregard for everything I know about health and body types, and growing up and not acting like a toddler at some point.
Since my weight stabilized after having Hannah I have lost 25 pounds. I now weigh 10 pounds less than I did before both of my kids. As I continue to work at fitness, this obsession with 108 (or a little more) has returned. I'm not living via the scale, I'm not doing anything unhealthy, or disregarding the temple the Lord has blessed me with in any way. I'm just saying if I woke up tomorrow and the scale said 108 pounds, the little eight-year-old girl inside me would raise the roof.
At church on Sunday a friend mentioned that I was looking quite slim. Tiny, in fact. Like I had never had two babies. And like, I was, perhaps, the smallest thing in the world. She paused after this declaration and then clarified, "Well, except maybe for Asian women."
"So, I'm the smallest thing this side of Asia?" I queried.
"Exactly," she replied, relieved that I understood.
I don't weigh 108. I don't weigh a little more than 108. But I just might be the smallest thing this side of Asia.
Which is not a concerning statement at all.
Allow me to explain. As a child I loved Batman.
... Doesn't that clarify everything?
I don't mean the modern Batman, who takes himself so seriously that he can't spurt flames out of the back of the Bat-mobile. I also don't mean the ridiculous Batman who hangs out with Chris O'Donnell and makes movies so bad, I literally had to turn it off after 15 minutes and rock back and forth in the corner until Marvel came to save me. (Oh yeah, we're gonna nerd out here. Let it go there.) I mean the original Batman movie with Michael Keaton, Jack Nicholson, Kim Basinger, and just enough 'really?' to make sure an eight-year-old Abi didn't have nightmares until she was thirty. (I still do have Batman nightmares. However, at eight-years-old, the Joker leaving me love notes and bringing me baguettes with WAY TOO MUCH butter on them [He's trying to kill me. Even at eight I knew that much butter would kill me.] before chasing me across Niagara falls on a high-wire seemed like the most terrifying thing possible. Now it's more amusing, and I have a little sit down with my brain in the morning and give it the eyebrow quirk. Nightmares have become much less fun as I age. Stupid real life. Ah, for the days when comic book villains were the only thing I had to fear.)
At one point in the movie, Vicky (ugh, that name just screams botox) gets herself in a mite bit of trouble (which skinny blonds in superhero movies never, ever do. So out of character.). Batman attaches some kind of vertical zip line to her (which if I were a real nerd I would know the name of and not just call "the-Bat-Vertical-Zip-Line-Thingy"), to whisk her out of danger. He asks how much she weighs (and really, if the "Bat-VZLT" can't haul Kim Basinger off the ground, why does he even carry it? Does he really think there's any chance in Hades she weighs more than him?). She replies "108, I think."
Somewhere in my little girl brain, something latched onto those numbers 1-0-8. My eight-year-old self determined that 108 pounds was therefore the ideal weight for a woman, who at some point in life might be interested in being saved from mask-wearing thugs (or Yankees fans) by a grown man dressing in tights. (I actually had someone correct me once, saying, "They aren't tights, they are fitted rubber pants. ... wow, that's so much better. I wouldn't dare question the masculinity of a dude in skin-tight rubber pants. Notice how they never show Batman getting dressed? This is why. There is nothing more repulsive than a man putting on tights ... or rubber pants. ... I'm a dancer; I know these things.
After the subsequent butt-kicking and reunion of Batman and our D.I.D. he quips, "You weigh a little more than 108." Little Abi decided that, perhaps then, a little more than 108 was acceptable. Although, I never reached a satisfactory conclusion on what that mysterious acceptable bulk was.
Sadly, Little Abi passed 108 long before she was available for rescue. For some reason I can't shake the idea that this is a good weight. If I was attached to a lie-detector and asked what my ideal weight was, 108 would be the only non-needle-jiving answer. And this with a complete disregard for everything I know about health and body types, and growing up and not acting like a toddler at some point.
Since my weight stabilized after having Hannah I have lost 25 pounds. I now weigh 10 pounds less than I did before both of my kids. As I continue to work at fitness, this obsession with 108 (or a little more) has returned. I'm not living via the scale, I'm not doing anything unhealthy, or disregarding the temple the Lord has blessed me with in any way. I'm just saying if I woke up tomorrow and the scale said 108 pounds, the little eight-year-old girl inside me would raise the roof.
At church on Sunday a friend mentioned that I was looking quite slim. Tiny, in fact. Like I had never had two babies. And like, I was, perhaps, the smallest thing in the world. She paused after this declaration and then clarified, "Well, except maybe for Asian women."
"So, I'm the smallest thing this side of Asia?" I queried.
"Exactly," she replied, relieved that I understood.
I don't weigh 108. I don't weigh a little more than 108. But I just might be the smallest thing this side of Asia.
Which is not a concerning statement at all.
Life is precious, from the moment God knew of it, we are human
There is a little girl in the arms of Jesus. And He is the luckiest being in creation. Because the rest of us are broken-hearted.
My dear friend found out in November that they had been selected as adoptive parents for Kate, a beautiful baby girl, due March 12th. We gave her formula, and a bouncer chair, and a swing, and a piece of our lives. On Monday Kate's birth mother delivered her, stillborn.
Now my friend is consoling a birth family, holding together her own family, choosing a two-foot coffin, and grieving with a pain too deep for words.
In the midst of it, she is being refined, and is being proved to have a faith purer than gold.
I keep trying to comment on her facebook posts. I want her to know that I am there for her, that I have lost a baby too, and my heart is weeping oceans for her family. I keep trying to say simple things: I am praying for you, you are loved, after all things God is only good. I just can't seem to manage to do it. There are no words. When your arms have ached to cradle your daughter, but now they will be empty of her until heaven's gates, then, there are no words.
I don't know what her story will hold besides faith beyond measure. My story is that the grief dulls, and one day you can think of your baby and not hurt. One day you will look excitedly to heaven and know a face, a giggle, a little human being will await you there. One day here, there will be joy ahead of pain. And one day there, there will be no grief at all. The darkness does not endure, nor do we mourn forever. My story is that God is good, and only ever good, and His faithfulness is new every morning.
My friend will have her own story. It will be beautiful and simple. And in eternity she will introduce me to Kate, her amazing daughter. And I will introduce her to my baby, who never had a name, but still had my heart.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Advanced Plumbingly Disinclined
In a Sunday school class on marriage I said that the Husband is not a fix it guy. I meant this as a great compliment. When I am distressed, when I have a problem, when I just need to rage, he listens with patience and tenderness, he holds me, and he does not fix it. When I am done being despicably dramatic, then he will sit down with me, and we will set about putting the universe right. But at the start he is singularly the most comforting, empathetic creature on our planet, like a big panda bear... except chiseled out of granite like a Greek god... like Panda, the lesser know god of being an incredible husband and patron guardian of softball players... I digress.
What I did not mean is that Justin does not fix stuff around the house. He does. Oh, does he. It's part of his divine character. ... I am not sure if I mean that statement in a christian way or if I am referring back to my earlier pagan reference. Somehow this all went very wrong.
The Husband fixes cars, he digs up and repairs sprinklers (Often. There are two seasons in our house: Winter and Lowe's.), he lays carpet, nails up dry wall, balances washers, sews up couch cushions, and clips dog claws. He unclogs toilets, catches mice, hangs shelves, and threatens our Apple T.V. box with various hammers and mallets, until, quite embarrassed (and terrified), it starts working again (under the threat of Mjölnir). The fact that he has had to do all of these things, and mostseveral many times, is really just a little sad.
The thing is, he just doesn't have that kind of time anymore. Time not spent studying, eating, or sleeping (or some combination of those three) is stolen for his wife, children, and brief stints as a church drummer. Most of the time now shelves remain unhung, the Apple TV stays haughtily broken, the mice have to catch themselves, and the washer spins tipsy-turvy making that joyful, repetitive thunking sound - you know, the one that makes you want to gather your children and put out a For Sale sign. I don't know how to fix anything, and after a few misadventures, Justin prefers I just not try. Our home owner's insurance just doesn't cover acts of idiocy.
So when the bathtub started filling up, I ignored it. With water sloshing around my ankles, I sang a happy song in my head and kept my eyes up. When Dumpster jumped in the tub after showers and drank his heart's content, I closed my eyes and backed away. When the tub gurgled Liquid Plumber, like a child gurgles Cool-aid, sipped it down and remained stubbornly un-drain-y, I took deep breaths and contented to ten.
Finally, the Husband had enough. He took three minutes to assess, plan, and implement a solution.
Voila:
And yes, oh yes, that is a golf tee. I have no idea what the red thing is, but I am sure it also served a purpose for which it was not designed.
Oi. I don't know what else to say. This is where we are. And by grace we have golf tees from carefree spring days.
What I did not mean is that Justin does not fix stuff around the house. He does. Oh, does he. It's part of his divine character. ... I am not sure if I mean that statement in a christian way or if I am referring back to my earlier pagan reference. Somehow this all went very wrong.
The Husband fixes cars, he digs up and repairs sprinklers (Often. There are two seasons in our house: Winter and Lowe's.), he lays carpet, nails up dry wall, balances washers, sews up couch cushions, and clips dog claws. He unclogs toilets, catches mice, hangs shelves, and threatens our Apple T.V. box with various hammers and mallets, until, quite embarrassed (and terrified), it starts working again (under the threat of Mjölnir). The fact that he has had to do all of these things, and most
The thing is, he just doesn't have that kind of time anymore. Time not spent studying, eating, or sleeping (or some combination of those three) is stolen for his wife, children, and brief stints as a church drummer. Most of the time now shelves remain unhung, the Apple TV stays haughtily broken, the mice have to catch themselves, and the washer spins tipsy-turvy making that joyful, repetitive thunking sound - you know, the one that makes you want to gather your children and put out a For Sale sign. I don't know how to fix anything, and after a few misadventures, Justin prefers I just not try. Our home owner's insurance just doesn't cover acts of idiocy.
So when the bathtub started filling up, I ignored it. With water sloshing around my ankles, I sang a happy song in my head and kept my eyes up. When Dumpster jumped in the tub after showers and drank his heart's content, I closed my eyes and backed away. When the tub gurgled Liquid Plumber, like a child gurgles Cool-aid, sipped it down and remained stubbornly un-drain-y, I took deep breaths and contented to ten.
Finally, the Husband had enough. He took three minutes to assess, plan, and implement a solution.
Voila:
And yes, oh yes, that is a golf tee. I have no idea what the red thing is, but I am sure it also served a purpose for which it was not designed.
Oi. I don't know what else to say. This is where we are. And by grace we have golf tees from carefree spring days.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
What kind of blog do you think I'm running here?!?!
Several times in the last few months things have happened. Private things. Hysterical things. After I finish wiping the tears from my eyes and the Husband's snickers die down he will announce, "You should put that in your blog." This will cause me to look at him like several furry woodland creatures are peeking out of his ears. The conversation will inevitably end with the title of this post being spewed out of my mouth in rancid shock. "I'm sure you could make it appropriate. And it would be so funny!" he will encourage.
At this point, having somewhat recovered my faculties, I will begin the construction of said post in my head, framing in subtle allusions and allegorical characters, nailing down euphemisms, and trying to paint hilarious pictures without any imagery at all. ...
And then I think of all the people, people I know, complete strangers, clergy and saints, the prim and proper, decent, law-abiding folk who just want to go through life knowing that they are slightly better than someone (and I, happy to oblige, will be that someone for them). I think of you, and I just can't write it. Hives start bursting forth on my chest. My throat goes dry. I blush.
What kind of blog am I running here? I already posted about my red undies; isn't that enough?!?!
I would say, "My pastor's wife reads this blog!", but that is less scandalous an indictment than you would imagine. If I were to say, "My former pastor's wife reads this blog!" then we would have a problem. They are just different folk, not better nor worse, just from different worlds. My pastor's wife actually wrote out the phrase condom mobile in a board game at our women's retreat. Our former pastor's wife only wears dresses to church. When our former pastor's wife came over for dinner I hid our copy of Firefly. When our current pastor's wife came over her husband pointed enthusiastically, and she said, "That is awesome!" Our pastor has a small Serenity replica on his key chain. Somewhere deep inside me, joy blooms.
But these are things that no clergyman nor his significant other could read without blushing.
How do you post the hysterical story of how the bed was broken when good christian women read this blog? How do you post the saga of yeah football does it for us when your mom is going to see it? And how do you relay the epic lube theft caper when one day your daughter might look back at these blogs, shriek "I did what?", and then need very intensive, very expensive therapy for the rest of her known life?
I'm just saying, this is a family-friendly blog. But we really don't live a family-friendly life.
At this point, having somewhat recovered my faculties, I will begin the construction of said post in my head, framing in subtle allusions and allegorical characters, nailing down euphemisms, and trying to paint hilarious pictures without any imagery at all. ...
And then I think of all the people, people I know, complete strangers, clergy and saints, the prim and proper, decent, law-abiding folk who just want to go through life knowing that they are slightly better than someone (and I, happy to oblige, will be that someone for them). I think of you, and I just can't write it. Hives start bursting forth on my chest. My throat goes dry. I blush.
What kind of blog am I running here? I already posted about my red undies; isn't that enough?!?!
I would say, "My pastor's wife reads this blog!", but that is less scandalous an indictment than you would imagine. If I were to say, "My former pastor's wife reads this blog!" then we would have a problem. They are just different folk, not better nor worse, just from different worlds. My pastor's wife actually wrote out the phrase condom mobile in a board game at our women's retreat. Our former pastor's wife only wears dresses to church. When our former pastor's wife came over for dinner I hid our copy of Firefly. When our current pastor's wife came over her husband pointed enthusiastically, and she said, "That is awesome!" Our pastor has a small Serenity replica on his key chain. Somewhere deep inside me, joy blooms.
But these are things that no clergyman nor his significant other could read without blushing.
How do you post the hysterical story of how the bed was broken when good christian women read this blog? How do you post the saga of yeah football does it for us when your mom is going to see it? And how do you relay the epic lube theft caper when one day your daughter might look back at these blogs, shriek "I did what?", and then need very intensive, very expensive therapy for the rest of her known life?
I'm just saying, this is a family-friendly blog. But we really don't live a family-friendly life.
Friday, December 5, 2014
The devil's in the batter
I am hoping that no one going to our church Christmas event reads my blog before tomorrow. Otherwise, we will have a lot of questionable chocolate chip cookie brownies leftover.
It was doomed from the start.
Because everything I touch lately seems under a curse of doom.
And women's ministry is destined to destroy me.
I volunteered to make chocolate chip cookies for our Christmas tea. Wanting to offer the freshest cookie possible, a treat above reproach, a treat that would silence the critics (and anyone in women's ministry knows that the critics are generally everyone within a twenty square mile radius of your event). ... (And silencing them is impossible.) ... (Just telling it like it is), I put off baking them until tonight.
For a brief backstory: my mother actually volunteered me to bake chocolate chip cookies because in her opinion I make the world's best. There are not a lot of things for which I suffer pride, but cookies are one. The following occurrences are therefore either a) discipline from my God for the mortification of my pride or b) a spiritual attack from the forces of darkness set to deter me from my spiritual duty of baking sweet treats.
I decided to one and a half my recipe. I thought this would maybe leave a few cookies for my dear husband. The trouble was five-fold:
1. Not enough brown sugar. The brown sugar I did have was sugar-glued into the bottom of the container and required me to chip it out in entirely appetizing chunks. When I whipped it into the batter, there were delightful little lumps of tooth-chippingly hard crystallized sugar.
2. I doubled the eggs and vanilla. I had been one and a halfing everything else. I looked quizzically down into the bowl wondering why it was so soupy until I glanced at the two egg shells beside me. Oh. Right. Snot-rocket. (What? I'm raising a two-year-old. My cuss words have to be creative.)
3. Not enough flour. I needed four cups. I had two and a half. Ever the improvising artist, I decided to substitute Bisquick for the rest of the flour. ... Not entirely interchangeable.
4. I did not have enough semi-sweet chips. I used some milk chips instead. Okay, really no worries here.
5. I was changing a diaper when the timer went off. It didn't matter anyway. My generally fluffy, airy, decadent cookies were tissue paper thin, crumbly, and dark brown. Grrr. The next batch I just spread in a pan and prayed for the best.
They look survivable, but I make no promises as to edibility.
So what do you think: discipline, attack, or natural consequences of my own stupidity?
It was doomed from the start.
Because everything I touch lately seems under a curse of doom.
And women's ministry is destined to destroy me.
I volunteered to make chocolate chip cookies for our Christmas tea. Wanting to offer the freshest cookie possible, a treat above reproach, a treat that would silence the critics (and anyone in women's ministry knows that the critics are generally everyone within a twenty square mile radius of your event). ... (And silencing them is impossible.) ... (Just telling it like it is), I put off baking them until tonight.
For a brief backstory: my mother actually volunteered me to bake chocolate chip cookies because in her opinion I make the world's best. There are not a lot of things for which I suffer pride, but cookies are one. The following occurrences are therefore either a) discipline from my God for the mortification of my pride or b) a spiritual attack from the forces of darkness set to deter me from my spiritual duty of baking sweet treats.
I decided to one and a half my recipe. I thought this would maybe leave a few cookies for my dear husband. The trouble was five-fold:
1. Not enough brown sugar. The brown sugar I did have was sugar-glued into the bottom of the container and required me to chip it out in entirely appetizing chunks. When I whipped it into the batter, there were delightful little lumps of tooth-chippingly hard crystallized sugar.
2. I doubled the eggs and vanilla. I had been one and a halfing everything else. I looked quizzically down into the bowl wondering why it was so soupy until I glanced at the two egg shells beside me. Oh. Right. Snot-rocket. (What? I'm raising a two-year-old. My cuss words have to be creative.)
3. Not enough flour. I needed four cups. I had two and a half. Ever the improvising artist, I decided to substitute Bisquick for the rest of the flour. ... Not entirely interchangeable.
4. I did not have enough semi-sweet chips. I used some milk chips instead. Okay, really no worries here.
5. I was changing a diaper when the timer went off. It didn't matter anyway. My generally fluffy, airy, decadent cookies were tissue paper thin, crumbly, and dark brown. Grrr. The next batch I just spread in a pan and prayed for the best.
They look survivable, but I make no promises as to edibility.
So what do you think: discipline, attack, or natural consequences of my own stupidity?
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
I'm Allergic to the State
I did not want to spoil my daughter's first birthday post with bitterness and complaining, so here is the post-birthday apocalyptic story complete with sarcasm and perhaps a few ungodly attitudes (which I decided to share with my pastor's wife; because I really didn't want the leaders of our church to have a good opinion of me anyway [insert spit-wielding raspberry]).
Hannah has had some violent reactions (including projectile vomiting, major congestion and sneezing, hives, anemia, and general miserableness) to several foods including milk and nutter butters. (Before you start judging, no, I did not give my one year old a whole nutter butter cookie. It was a bite-sized nutter butter, and she begged me for it with Bambi eyes... until the puking commenced at which point she looked at me as if I had purposefully tried to poison her with arsenic. And then I proceeded to feel like the best mother ever.)
At her one year appointment the pediatrician recommended that we do an allergy test to make sure she doesn't have future and more ER-visit-inducing reactions. So I took my daughter to the lab for a blood draw. Of course, she picked this day to be the sweetest, gentlest, most endearing child ever born. Just in case I wasn't already going to feel absolutely terrible about this. She wanted to be sure as she gazed up at me with those singularly amazing blue eyes and adorable two toothed smile that I felt, in fact, like the best mother ever.
At the lab I was instructed to wrap Hannah up straight-jacket style on my lap, while one nurse held her arm, and the other inserted a javelin through her skin. I think there must have been a shortage on surgical equipment at the factory, and one clever foreman decided that 18 inch sewer pipes once bleached out could substitute for infant needles. My brave girl did an amazing job. She hardly cried at all, except when they took her slinky away. (The slinky will need further discussion later, but for now, suffice it to say, most of our known world revolves around blankies, pacifiers, and this one orange slinky.) Attached to the needle was a syringe that could hold about 2 liters, and I think they really wanted to fill it up. Just as I was about to ask if my daughter might need some of that left in her system, the nurse removed the tube and capped it. Phew. She then attached another 2 liter coke bottle to the needle and milked a little more out of her. "Y'all got a hungry brood of vampires in the back somewhere? Is this for your world renowned 1 million leach collection? STOP!" my brain screamed. However, my brave baby sat grumpy yet patient until they were done, and then fiercely retrieved her slinky.
Both nurses said what an incredible job she did, and that she was one of the best babies they've ever had in the lab. Well, yes, she is awesome. That's what I've been saying. We sent our regards to the vampires and left.
Monday yielded the results of Baby Brave's blood draw. Drum roll please. Hannah is allergic to: milk, soy, eggs, wheat, peanuts, cashews, and latex. WHAT??!!! Cashews???!!!! Oh no, how ever will we circumvent all of the millions of cashews littering back alleys and seedy side-streets just waiting to jump out and mug sweet, innocent baby girls who happened to end up in the nutty side of town? How will we ever avoid all those darn cashews? I mean milk, sure, who wants to eat ice cream, yogurt, cheese, and butter on a regular basis? Wheat: no problem! It's not like wheat is in ever possible side dish or sandwich conceived by man. And really, no one cooks ANYTHING in peanut oil nowadays. Everyone secretly hates Reeses Peanut Butter cups, no loss there. But oh, oh, turn your laughter to mourning and your joy to gloom, what ever are we to do about this cashew allergy. (I promised you sarcasm, and sarcasm is what I deliver. You're welcome.)
As Justin is out of a job at the moment we are on WIC. It has been an absolute blessing. However, after the six pints of blood they took out of my sweetie bear and telling me she's allergic to everything but peas, my mood was not improved by our visit to the WIC office. I had to leave work early, pick up Hannah's lab results, deliver a copy of the nutrition prescription form to her pediatrician, wait for the pediatrician to elect almond milk for Hannah to drink, go pick up my kids, take prescription, tired children, and lab results to WIC office, only to be told they will not provide almond milk. In fact, for situations like hers, there are only two brands of formula they will cover. ...My my, but wouldn't that have been some nice information to have at the start of this process four hours and half a tank of gas ago. So now, the woman toting two children on the verge of tantrums, a diaper bag, and her hopes and dreams about gets to drive herself back across town to the pediatrician, explain to them why she needs the same form filled out again, and drive back to WIC with said form. Oh, and I don't want my daughter to have formula. I would rather keep nursing her. But WIC doesn't support nursing after one year of age. So we no longer get any food for me or baby food for Hannah. But Hannah does get vouchers for whole wheat cereal, peanut butter, and eggs. ...
And that's when I killed them, your honor.
I know we are among the richest people on earth. I have a wonderful family, the support of friends, a roof over our heads, and plenty of food to put on the table (just not anything with milk, nuts, wheat, eggs, or soy in it). My key to success during this era of our lives has been to maintain genuine gratitude to our God who provides. But sometimes I get so weary of actively having to recall blessings. Sometimes it is exhausting being optimistic. Sometimes life just sucks. And for so many reasons today is that sometime.
Hannah has had some violent reactions (including projectile vomiting, major congestion and sneezing, hives, anemia, and general miserableness) to several foods including milk and nutter butters. (Before you start judging, no, I did not give my one year old a whole nutter butter cookie. It was a bite-sized nutter butter, and she begged me for it with Bambi eyes... until the puking commenced at which point she looked at me as if I had purposefully tried to poison her with arsenic. And then I proceeded to feel like the best mother ever.)
At her one year appointment the pediatrician recommended that we do an allergy test to make sure she doesn't have future and more ER-visit-inducing reactions. So I took my daughter to the lab for a blood draw. Of course, she picked this day to be the sweetest, gentlest, most endearing child ever born. Just in case I wasn't already going to feel absolutely terrible about this. She wanted to be sure as she gazed up at me with those singularly amazing blue eyes and adorable two toothed smile that I felt, in fact, like the best mother ever.
At the lab I was instructed to wrap Hannah up straight-jacket style on my lap, while one nurse held her arm, and the other inserted a javelin through her skin. I think there must have been a shortage on surgical equipment at the factory, and one clever foreman decided that 18 inch sewer pipes once bleached out could substitute for infant needles. My brave girl did an amazing job. She hardly cried at all, except when they took her slinky away. (The slinky will need further discussion later, but for now, suffice it to say, most of our known world revolves around blankies, pacifiers, and this one orange slinky.) Attached to the needle was a syringe that could hold about 2 liters, and I think they really wanted to fill it up. Just as I was about to ask if my daughter might need some of that left in her system, the nurse removed the tube and capped it. Phew. She then attached another 2 liter coke bottle to the needle and milked a little more out of her. "Y'all got a hungry brood of vampires in the back somewhere? Is this for your world renowned 1 million leach collection? STOP!" my brain screamed. However, my brave baby sat grumpy yet patient until they were done, and then fiercely retrieved her slinky.
Both nurses said what an incredible job she did, and that she was one of the best babies they've ever had in the lab. Well, yes, she is awesome. That's what I've been saying. We sent our regards to the vampires and left.
Monday yielded the results of Baby Brave's blood draw. Drum roll please. Hannah is allergic to: milk, soy, eggs, wheat, peanuts, cashews, and latex. WHAT??!!! Cashews???!!!! Oh no, how ever will we circumvent all of the millions of cashews littering back alleys and seedy side-streets just waiting to jump out and mug sweet, innocent baby girls who happened to end up in the nutty side of town? How will we ever avoid all those darn cashews? I mean milk, sure, who wants to eat ice cream, yogurt, cheese, and butter on a regular basis? Wheat: no problem! It's not like wheat is in ever possible side dish or sandwich conceived by man. And really, no one cooks ANYTHING in peanut oil nowadays. Everyone secretly hates Reeses Peanut Butter cups, no loss there. But oh, oh, turn your laughter to mourning and your joy to gloom, what ever are we to do about this cashew allergy. (I promised you sarcasm, and sarcasm is what I deliver. You're welcome.)
As Justin is out of a job at the moment we are on WIC. It has been an absolute blessing. However, after the six pints of blood they took out of my sweetie bear and telling me she's allergic to everything but peas, my mood was not improved by our visit to the WIC office. I had to leave work early, pick up Hannah's lab results, deliver a copy of the nutrition prescription form to her pediatrician, wait for the pediatrician to elect almond milk for Hannah to drink, go pick up my kids, take prescription, tired children, and lab results to WIC office, only to be told they will not provide almond milk. In fact, for situations like hers, there are only two brands of formula they will cover. ...My my, but wouldn't that have been some nice information to have at the start of this process four hours and half a tank of gas ago. So now, the woman toting two children on the verge of tantrums, a diaper bag, and her hopes and dreams about gets to drive herself back across town to the pediatrician, explain to them why she needs the same form filled out again, and drive back to WIC with said form. Oh, and I don't want my daughter to have formula. I would rather keep nursing her. But WIC doesn't support nursing after one year of age. So we no longer get any food for me or baby food for Hannah. But Hannah does get vouchers for whole wheat cereal, peanut butter, and eggs. ...
And that's when I killed them, your honor.
I know we are among the richest people on earth. I have a wonderful family, the support of friends, a roof over our heads, and plenty of food to put on the table (just not anything with milk, nuts, wheat, eggs, or soy in it). My key to success during this era of our lives has been to maintain genuine gratitude to our God who provides. But sometimes I get so weary of actively having to recall blessings. Sometimes it is exhausting being optimistic. Sometimes life just sucks. And for so many reasons today is that sometime.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Happy First Hannah
Somehow this little miracle turned one:
My daughter is brave and beautiful and sweet and temperamental and funny and simply the most amazing thing to ever grace this green earth. She must be taking after her father.
I am not the kind of mom who gets weepy because her little baby is growing up. My children astonish me ever day. I look forward to each morning to see what they have learned, what personality quirk will come through, what utter silliness will be engaged in for the pure delight of mama and the King. While I cannot deny that my energy levels long for the pre-rolling days, my heart is in awe of what God has accomplished in this Little Man and Baby Girl.
For example: Noah read the word END. Thomas was finishing (of course. because why would we ever want to watch anything else. ever. again. until I'm sixty, and I'm trying to throw my son and his model trains out of our basement.), and big bright letters appeared on the screen: THE END. Noah pointed and declared quite matter-of-factly to me, "e - nnnnnn - Duh." And lest you think he just recognized the shape of the word and didn't really read per say, I went through all of his story books, flipped to the last page and not one of them had the words: THE END. Yes, I am raising a genius.
And yes, I'm the kind of person that will flip to the last page of over twenty children's books just to prove a point. And I might even have said "HA!" out loud as if all of his stuffed animals had been doubting me and needed to be put in their place.
For another example: Baby girl signs "all done" when she is done eating. The only problem is she believes 'all done' is some kind of magic word/movement that instantly removes any article of offense away from her and banishes it to outer darkness with the Dragon and our old Subaru. "No, sweetie-bear," I must patiently explain. "You are not all done after one bite of applesauce." Astonishment covers her tiny features. She waves her arms again just in case the magic didn't work the first time. Mommy continues to sit there still holding a spoon heaped with appley offense. Despondent that her transcendent teleporter is no longer functional, she throws her head back in a contortionist back bend with a mighty squeak of dissatisfaction.
And Hannah wants to do baby yoga,
which is awesome.
Happy birthday Baby Girl. You are my complete joy.
My daughter is brave and beautiful and sweet and temperamental and funny and simply the most amazing thing to ever grace this green earth. She must be taking after her father.
I am not the kind of mom who gets weepy because her little baby is growing up. My children astonish me ever day. I look forward to each morning to see what they have learned, what personality quirk will come through, what utter silliness will be engaged in for the pure delight of mama and the King. While I cannot deny that my energy levels long for the pre-rolling days, my heart is in awe of what God has accomplished in this Little Man and Baby Girl.
For example: Noah read the word END. Thomas was finishing (of course. because why would we ever want to watch anything else. ever. again. until I'm sixty, and I'm trying to throw my son and his model trains out of our basement.), and big bright letters appeared on the screen: THE END. Noah pointed and declared quite matter-of-factly to me, "e - nnnnnn - Duh." And lest you think he just recognized the shape of the word and didn't really read per say, I went through all of his story books, flipped to the last page and not one of them had the words: THE END. Yes, I am raising a genius.
And yes, I'm the kind of person that will flip to the last page of over twenty children's books just to prove a point. And I might even have said "HA!" out loud as if all of his stuffed animals had been doubting me and needed to be put in their place.
For another example: Baby girl signs "all done" when she is done eating. The only problem is she believes 'all done' is some kind of magic word/movement that instantly removes any article of offense away from her and banishes it to outer darkness with the Dragon and our old Subaru. "No, sweetie-bear," I must patiently explain. "You are not all done after one bite of applesauce." Astonishment covers her tiny features. She waves her arms again just in case the magic didn't work the first time. Mommy continues to sit there still holding a spoon heaped with appley offense. Despondent that her transcendent teleporter is no longer functional, she throws her head back in a contortionist back bend with a mighty squeak of dissatisfaction.
And Hannah wants to do baby yoga,
which is awesome.
Happy birthday Baby Girl. You are my complete joy.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Sometimes through the haze
It is not easy.
When Hannah has already finished her cereal,
but is still crying, Noah is burying his head in his blanket refusing to eat,
and Dumpster is barking at the door to go out. When I have Bible study to
finish, but I have to schedule meetings at work, but I have to clean the house,
but we haven’t had any food in our fridge for five days (and I mean, no food, unless you want to eat plain
pureed pumpkin with hot sauce). When I hug Justin hello and kiss him goodbye
within the same five minutes. When Noah has a cold and does not sleep all night
(again, not exaggerating, the.boy.did.not.sleep!), Hannah is having a growth
spurt and demands milk at 2:00am, and the mice wonder why I won’t just leave
Dumpster’s food on the ground like a decent hostess. This is when it is not
easy. We are living in the haze.
One of my very dear friends got excellent, fantastic,
the-best-possible-news this week. While others weep for joy, dance for
jubilation, and sing an anthem to our Yahweh, I smile softly as if far off,
watching a butterfly land across a field. I experience joy for her as if
glancing at another universe, strange and distant, behind billows of ‘this isn’t
easy.’
I miss my husband. I’ve been thinking of sending him
postcards at the hospital. My son is a heart-breaker when sick… and I’m pretty
sure he knows it. I don’t know how to provide for my daughter after she turns
one (which is ridiculously, ludicrously soon). I don’t know how to follow at
this moment, when I am watching my feet drag one front, and then the other, and
then, hopefully, usually, the other.
I know it isn’t plague. I know it isn’t war. I know it isn’t
need and famine and death and any other horses being bridled back by the
long-suffering hand of a compassionate King. But it is alone. And it is weak. And
it is not easy.
But sometimes through the haze…
Hannah dances. She takes a few wobbly steps, throws her head
back and forth, claps her hands, and falls straight down to her bottom. She
grins up at me and blows a kiss. And just this once, Noah decides instead of
pushing her out of the way, he will kiss her on the cheek.
Noah will recite his alphabet, which as we all know goes “A
B C D P Cu(Q) S S S E F G…” and so on.
Dumpster will curl up at my feet when I lay down to sleep
because Justin is not there, and a bulldog makes you feel, if nothing else,
secure.
I will catch a glimpse of my husband, and he will be the
same strong, smart, fun, godly man I remember, if a little more tired, and I
will be engulfed in love for him… so much so that I can’t speak.
Sometimes through the haze, God will woo me back towards the light, through the jaws of distress, with moments of miracles and breaths of truth in the wind. His Word will stand. His promise, His Son will stand in my life, and there is no haze that can contain the Captain of Light.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)