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 most several 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 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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Plumbingly Disinclined

There it was, gurgling gleefully at me, traitorous and foul, our kitchen sink.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning: Justin is doing his clinicals. He is working in the ICU tonight. He is saving lives, I am using a plunger. ...Noah is screaming.

I am supposed to be at Bible study.

I thought this would be a long post, but starting at the beginning has summed things up better than I imagined. We tried to pulverize something that is apparently unpulverizable, the sink backed up and foulness floated in our kitchen. I was just going to let it go. I'm sure there is nothing the husband would like better than to come home after a hospital shift and unclog a growling sink that smells worse than my growling bulldog (but only just barely). However, once Noah threw his bottle into the fetid water, and I had to fish it out, we voted and decided that the sink needed fixing. (Yes, we vote in our house. But you earn votes based on height and the ability to take yourself to the bathroom. Ergo, while the boy has two votes and Hannah has one, Mommy has three bazillion, and usually wins. [Unless daddy is voting because he's a giant and gets four kagillion bazillion and two-thirds votes.] We don't vote based on math skills because Noah would pass me up in about six months).

I then sent a request out on facebook for anyone available, close, and plumbingly inclined to come save us before we had to start bailing. The replies included: I can be there tomorrow, two comments from sweet women that they themselves know how to unclog drains and could instruct me how (and you know this made me feel like a capable, intelligent, independent woman, who just happens to need to curl up in a closet and cry every now and then), and one bizarre statement that I should track all of the calamities over the next nine and a half months while Justin is swamped by school, so we can laugh about it one day. The sadist who left this comment, seemed to think we would one day understand how God's grace and provision had been all over us at this time. She is right. But I don't have to like it.

Finally, I got a hold of my wonderful, wonderful, wonderful father, who came over, plunged the thing out and got all factors flowing freely again. Did I mention he's great?

I mean awesome...

Like the great kings of old...

Just making sure I'm clear on this point.

Wisdom is often finding a balance between extremes. The extremes I was facing were a plunger, Liquid Plumber, and my ever-so-mechanically-inclined brain attempting to redeem the situation and dumping nasty water out the kitchen window all night.

I decided to make cookies. That seems like a reasonable compromise between the previous options.

Being chip-less, I settled on no-bake cookies. I pulled out my measuring cups, wrapped a bandana around my nose to keep out the stink (and so the five-year-old part of my brain could play Butch Cassidy and the Cookie Kid, shooting people with egg beater guns all night), and gathered the ingredients.

Then the final straw started floating down out of the sky and in eloquent camel-speak I humphed "NOOOoooo!!!!" Grabbing the oatmeal container, I gave it a little shake. It rat-a-tat-tatted like a disappointing maraca. Now, after twenty-nine years on this green earth, I have learned a thing or two (okay, I've learned three things total, that still counts). One of the things I know is what two cups of dry oatmeal sounds like in a cardboard Quaker can. It shooshes gently, like soft waves tugging at heavy sand. Two cups of oatmeal doesn't shake it like latin percussion. Not enough oatmeal makes that concerning sound.

In the words of Elrond, "And there will be no cookies for you."

The point is, I think I will take the Facebook sadist's advice and record things from this year, so one day, as promised, I will look back in laughter and think, "Remember the time I wanted to make cookies, but didn't have any oatmeal? God was so good then." ... Or something like that. Fair warning: this blog could get sarcastic.

In the middle of the night when ... finds me

At the end of my previous post I wrote the following: "I am excited for what will be accomplished in a week and a half... I am excited. And I am unafraid." I imagine therefore, that the subsequent retreat calamities are in fact entirely my fault. Apologies to all retreat goers.

Except not really. Because I am still unafraid.

This year our annual women's retreat began like any other: searching for the edibles that were inadvertently left at the church and requesting several attendees run to the store for us. However, it weren't no thang. (Okay, the missing accouterments were the coffee pot cord and coffee, and we are Baptist, so it was kind of a thang. But with a Wal-mart just down the street, we staved off any withdrawal induced rioting. [Again, with the plug-in issues. Why can coffee pots and cell phones not run on the same type of charger. It's 2014 people! Coffee pots should come with USB ports and wi-fi... or at least IV drip bags.]) Everyone had chocolate cake and ice cream, we worshiped, we praised, we encouraged, loved, and listened, and then there was a rousing game of Telestrations (just in case we were concerned with becoming too spiritual). All in all, a grand time was had.

Next day? Not so much.

It all started with the mention that a certain unwanted vermin of the "sleep tight, don't let 'em bite" variety had been seen. Our ministry team leader and I slipped quietly into the room, and checked the bed, peeling back covers, lifting mattresses, and generally accusing every ball of lint of being buggy, vile, and committing heinous crimes against humanity. We dug the squashed offender out of the trash, and all but performed a complete crime scene investigation. My compadre got out her phone and googled images of bed bugs for comparison (although I still hold that we should be able to do this on our coffee pot without needing to lug around obnoxious phones). It was, in fact, beddy and buggy.

We informed several others on our team, and then, ninja-style, we slunk from room to room and tossed the beds. Nothing. Our ever wise leader, spoke to her quite godly husband and determined we should probably still inform folk that one was found, though the circumstances of its presence were somewhat suspect. One at a time we started letting people in on the occurrences of the afternoon (like the fact that we ransacked their rooms while they were out... oh yeah, our ministry team is not above creepy). I assumed people would check their beds, find, as we had, nothing, and return to their crafty, gamey, sleepy diversions.

I am really a bad assumer. I should give up the habit.

Another little monster was found, on a different floor of the house, and another on a different floor of the house.

And our fearless leader of this merry band of misfits began to crack.

As the bug infestation exploded all over everything (please don't visualize that), too much unfolded to be relayed in a blog that I want my four readers to finish reading at some point. The summary is: we decided to stay, those who wanted to go went, and we declared to the Adversary that this weekend would not be a win in his score book. And we ate pumpkin cobbler with equal conviction.

The thing I do want to address is this: while most were kind, understanding, courageous, and godly in what was a rather nasty situation, there was also certainly some major paranoia, panic, and irrational behavior, as human beings lunged to grasp any small sense of control they could exercise over things to big and wonderful for them.

At some point we have to live a life of faith. Human beings really have very limited control over reality. We cannot control nature in all of its cruelty and annoyances: the floods will rise, the fires will burn, the bugs will crawl. We cannot control other people: their reactions, their emotions, their choices are beyond are grasp. We cannot control our God, for as Lucy reminds us: "He is not tame, but He is good." All we can control is what we choose to do about Jesus Christ. Can we trust Him to be Captain of our lives or not? I will not live a life of fear. That is not the legacy I want to leave for my children. For those who have been entrusted to me, I want to show that life can be victorious, that Yahweh is closer than a brother and greater than the universe. As my children watch me I want them to see a woman of fierce bravery, who can laugh at the days to come; because her God is greater than herself, and she really believes this.

My daughter is still nursing, so she went with me this weekend. Her bed was a pack and play. I met our leader and her mother in the bathroom as we got ready in the morning, and I offered them the options I had come up with for this fabric-covered, potentially buggy object. 1. Trust that the Lord does not have more children in our future and leave it there. 2. Rub the entire bloody thing down with alcohol until the fumes have killed enough brain cells that I just don't care anymore. (A point of my own failure: unlike my God, my tongue is not tame nor good. "Who will rescue me from this body of death?") 3. Trust that if God has bedbugs planned for my future that they will come crawling out of the woodwork, no effort on my part will stop them, and I will be okay with this.

This is what we forget. God is Sovereign and Good. His will cannot be thwarted, and honestly, why would we want to. If I do not end up with bed bugs in the next year, I will praise God. If I do have little critters nipping in the night, I will still praise God. When Yahweh is the Lord of your life; you can be unafraid. He alone makes us brave. At some point we have to choose: will you live a life of fear, or will you live a life of faith.

Outnumbered in Retreat

Part of my responsibility on our church's Women's Ministry Team is to help organize, facilitate, make brownies for, lead worship at, and generally agonize over every detail of the annual fall women's retreat. (I'm not kidding. Our fearless leader made everyone sign a contract at the beginning of the year. I didn't actually read through it, but I am sure at some point it mentions retreat brownies frosted with agony. ... and given the nature of our fearless leader, I probably signed away a child to her as well. ... which, since we are in the midst of a bout with teething, I could really be okay with.) The retreat is a week and a half away, and whilest all the details have been considered, the finances to accomplish said details are not what you would call... um... there.

Since our first retreat six years ago we have grown every year. Steadily, God has been faithfully increasing our numbers. It is a wonderful trouble to have. Two years ago we all stayed in one house and a third of our blessed attendees slept on the floor. (I slept on a couch, but lest you think I am a spoiled little Women's Ministry Team princess, the couch was in a closet and was about eighteen inches away from my six week old child. Loads of retreating happening there.) Last year there were so many women we rented two houses and shuttled folks back and forth. This did not turn out so grand, but, I believe, God still used this time, the speaker, and the fellowship to encourage, bless, and challenge his people.

With the steady incline our team undertook a quest to find a house big enough, inexpensive enough, in a good location, and suited to as many people's needs/interests as we possibly could (and we figured if we satisfied at least two ladies we would be doing rather well). With the process bathed in prayer we found a new mansion with beds for sixty people, 8 bathrooms, a big worship space, and it was only an hour away from the valley. We started signing women up four weeks ago. With one more week left, we have twenty less registered than last year. As my son would say, "Uh oh!"

In true Peter fashion, I strapped my sword to my hip (right under the baby sling) and set off to rescue the retreat. I posted to every facebook wall, sent emails, prayed, encouraged, coerced, mentioned casually that I'm armed, and in all other ways implored women to come retreating. As I completed my onslaught, thought one of the day flashed through my mind: "Wouldn't it be awesome if I got all these women to come to the retreat?"

Not a full second later, I literally heard Priscilla Shirer's voice in my head as she paraphrased God's message to Gideon, "You might actually have the audacity to think you had something to do with it." I feel I would be much holier if the mind that God has given me was just a few seconds quicker witted than my flesh. Proceed to the dropping of one very foolish forehead onto one very solid table.

God says that He will accomplish mighty things, He will deliver, He is the One who knows the beginning from the end, by His hand the mouths of lions are shut, and in our weakness His strength is perfected.

I find it funny that our team is now outnumbered by too few. It is my prayer that God would use our weaknesses: our planning, our limits, our exhaustion, the worries of life that make us think we don't have the time or energy for His work, as a foundation to build a monument to His great Name. I am excited for what will be accomplished in a week and a half. I am thrilled for those almost thirty women who are coming to meet God and to see the valley through His eyes. I anticipate a new perspective, a new day, a new hope, uncried tears, laughs that have been bubbling up flying out to the joy of our hearts and God's. I am excited. And I am unafraid. And I have nothing to do with it.

The Things I've Learned

My husband introduced me to many wonders of the world previously unknown in my small life. Like the mighty Chewbacca, the first wonders I think of are food-related: sushi, avocados, Indian food, and macaroni and tomato juice... okay, macaroni and tomato juice is not a wonder of the world, but when I can feed our entire family dinner for less than a dollar and leave the three of them smiling happily, it's pretty close to wonderful. Even the little one, who has no teeth (not sure what she's waiting on; life really opens up when you get teeth), loves it all smashed up and even nastier than usual. *

He also introduced me to sports. I knew sports existed, but I had no concept of how satisfying it is to see a 350 pound lineman smashing the enemy's quarterback like an over-boiled potato. (Ah, similes.) Since hooking up with Justin, I have experienced the desire to throw ball, putter, driver, bag, cart, and universe into a water hazard after recording yet another snowman. My voice has been shattered by screaming "GO UTES!" and "ATTA KID, Travis!" for hours at a time. And, I have had softball threads etched into my tibia and humerus as I attempt to stop a speeding line-drive with every conceivable appendage except the one with the glove on it. (Is your head considered an appendage?)

Thirdly, Justin has opened the door to the world of Marvel heroes, which the incredible Hulk succeeded in smashing shut behind me. I cannot remember the last movie we saw that did not have a superhero or a hobbit in it.

What do you say to the man who daily brings you so much joy that your heart might burst... like a bowl of mac and tom shattering on the floor... like it was smashed with a line drive... like The Thing and Hulk got in a fight over it and scattered it to the corners of the universe?... But in a good way.

I love him. Lots. And if he ever tries to leave, I'll kick him. Hard. And I never thought, after six years, I would still be so smitten. Happy Anniversary, husband. You've done so many amazing and important things for me and in my life... none of which are listed above.

* Think this sounds odd? It is. Read more about mac and tom here: http://ririerantings.blogspot.com/2013/06/macaroni-and-tomato-juice.html.