What the Texas Wind Devours

The day started with a broken dish. Then things went bad. The Little Hurricane is attempting to dump the bottle. I suppose that is an inaccurate statement: mommy is trying to dump the bottle for the Hurricane. She is screaming. A lot. Because sun and moon and tide and seasons have revolved around, ebbed to, and changed with that bottle. My hand pauses several moments longer than normal as I twist her doorknob open in the morning. Psyching myself up for the shrieking storm to greet my milkless self. Noah isn't ready to be potty trained. I've pleaded, I've forced, I've bribed, but the Little Man is just not ready. Alas, I realized this as he stood in front of his potty peeing on his shoes. (I promise I will delete this blog before y'all are old enough to care to read it, my precious munchkins.)

Justin, after a frustrating night on the hunt, pawed home, growled, and stalked off into his den. Not wanting to rouse the beast, I determined to keep the pups quiet... Me and my nob-noggined determinations.

A parade with a poorly-trained, but very proud high school marching band could have tromped their way through our living room with more grace and quietude than me attempting to get shoes, jackets, and ... oh really again?... pants on all of us. I hovered an ear over the bedroom door, to see if the werewolf was, by some miraculous anomaly, sleeping. I heard nothing. It wasn't the nothing of sleeping, though. It was the nothing of a man trying very hard not to turn into the Incredible Hulk. We hurried out. Before daddy decided to SMASH.

I had intended many fun and energy-expending adventures out  on the town. But it was windy. To those of you shoveling eighteen inches of snow, this may sound rather wussy, but let me assure you: Texas wind is mean. I think the wind in Texas wasn't loved by its mother or was picked on in Junior High by the big popular weather patterns.  It's got a chip on it's shoulder.  The wind here is just plain ill-tempered. We had to go to H.E.B. to get peanut butter. (For you non-Texans, H.E.B. is Texas' grocery store. It stands for "here everything's better." Or "Hell, everything's buttery." Texans have a reckless disregard for nutrition.  H.E.B. should really stand for: Here, Eat your Beef.) The entire walk from our car into the store was filled with Noah's screaming because the wind was gnawing his ears  off and starting in on his cheeks. I couldn't bring myself to drag them all over in that miserable gale, so we went home.

Ok, not true. We had to stop at the credit union first. In outer darkness, next to our Beast Wagon, will be the Texell Credit Union.

Then I dragged them home.

Which is when the day, their attitudes, and my parenting went from phenomenal to utterly awesome (please don't make me tell you that's sarcasm).

We ended up here:

Oh yeah, that is the Hurricane in fuzzy pink kitty slippers, and the Wild Thing in dinosaur feet and a buffalo hat riding in the double stroller with the visor in front of them because it sort of blocks that foul-tempered wind. And what pray-do-tell is blocking that vicious breeze from mommy? Nothing. Because mommy doesn't care. Because they are out of the house and not crying, not waking up daddy, not smacking the dog, and not having a pushing tug-of-war with their beautiful little craniums.

There are several excellent sources of parental advice who declare that we must avoid "Desperation Parenting."

Which sounds like very wise counsel. Like, "Just give it to the Lord." Great. Any practical idea on how the raving, foaming, blubbering mess in the corner might go about that very mature process?

Back to desperation parenting. There are some simple things you can do to avoid desperation parenting.

1. Don't have a husband who works nights and has to sleep during the day so he doesn't make some exhaustion-induced mistake like, you know, injecting his peanut butter and jelly sandwich into someone's vent tube.

2. Don't have a bulldog who has a biological compulsion to bark at every squirrel, lizard, doorbell, and gust of wind in a five mile radius.

3. Don't leave behind your entire support system, baby sitting team, and pep-talk club, and move yourself halfway across the country to where people are different and use phrases like "all y'all", which is chalk-board-scratchingly poor grammar, and maddeningly redundant.

4. Don't move to little Podunk, Texas where there is nothing to do.

5. Don't allow gustering winds to occur.

6. Don't have two children that are less than fifteen months apart.

7. Don't have a two year old.

8. Don't have a three year old.

9. In fact, the very best way to avoid desperation parenting is to not have any children at all. It's really the only way to be sure.

The desperation isn't in dealing with your children. I love them. Even in my madness I want the best for them. The desperation really unhinges its gaping maw when the lies begin to assail. "Terrible mother. Terrible wife. Terrible Christian." The lies are like the wind, but their assault begins inside and gnaws it's way out. You would think I would know love well enough to stand in the face of the lies. But sometimes, us big adulty people need child reminders. We need truth in small moments, said simply... with asparaguses. (Asparagi? Asparagigies? Asparageet?)

I cried when I watched Veggie Tales, folks. That's where I am at. First off I cried tears of joy that everyone was seated, quiet, and free of senseless violence for a span of time greater than 6 seconds. Then I cried because Lenny's mom sang him this song after his horrible day:

When your day's been a mess and you feel it intensely,
Don't forget Whose you are and Who loves you immensely.
God made you His child and you're treasured as such
You're precious, you're cherished, He loves you so much!

And this is the day the Lord has made
You're special to Him you'll be okay
Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love you still.
Things will get better I promise they will.

Okay, so I wasn't a blubbering mess. There wasn't snot flying, and gasping, and a saline puddle forming below me. Maybe just a tear trickled out. Because that is just the kind of thing my mom would say.

Tomorrow will dawn, and He'll love me still.
Things will get better, I promise they will.

Although, these aren't my favorite lyrics of Robin Good and His Not-so-Merry Men. That would be:

Covered with love
sealed against troubles
sheltered in a cloud of bubbles, bubbles, bubbles
safe inside the arms of my bubble, bubble, bubble rap!

Weekend activities in Middle Earth

My Mac died. It was a wonderful little Mac. And cheap, because I'm a girl, and really what is the point to being a girl if you can't conjure up a few sniffling tears and get $150 knocked off the price of your already discounted laptop? Nurturing, artistry, fierceness, and beauty? Is the trouble of femininity really worth these virtues? No, but 150 bucks certainly is. Because I have my head on straight. And a scathing sense of reality.

Back to the point: my Mac died. And it made me sad. I've been a-coaxing and a-conjuring, a-begging and a-threatening with various sized mallets, but she won't comeback to me. The need to blog has finally outweighed my despisal of Justin's Intel. I don't like it, but I have no choice. My muse has the flu again, and words are just vomiting out everywhere... it's been a long time, I need to get back into the swing of not being a weirdo. Bear with me.

One final excuse before we continue: the spacebar on this maleficent, Windows 10 monstrosity is a wee bit sticky. (Kind of like that Farside cartoon where one sinner in hell murmurs to the other, "Man, the coffee's cold. They thought of everything!" Windows 10 left no pang unprodded.) Ergo, if you come to a word that is a paragraph long, know that I am not just making things up again. I am being thwarted. By a machine. Which is poetic, and maddening... and rather cliché.

It was bone-chilling cold here, so Justin decided it was a perfect day to take up Frisbee golf. We put several coats and hats on everyone and soldiered out to a Frisbee golf course. I'm not sure if this has ever come up, but I am a dis-embodied Frisbee-ist. When a human being loses their proprioceptors, they are no longer able to act physically in the world without visually focusing on the limbs/joints needing to move. (It's a thing. Again, I'm not making this up.) The brain via it's five primary senses has to willfully urge the body to act. That is how I play Frisbee. My eyes scream rather telekinetically at my wrist to break with enough whip to project the Frisbee forward, but to stop before I throw the rebellious disc into the next county off to my right. Disc games are exhausting. So much effort.

But the husband grew up throwing whatever was put in his hands, so he cannot empathize with my body's active betrayal of my conscious mind. And he brings kids back to life on a daily basis, so he gets to pick our recreational activities. ... Which is a pretty good system.

Thus we tromped. Over the frozen earth. Ears being gnawed on by the wind. To play eighteen holes of Frisbee golf. It took me nine throws to sink my "putter" Frisbee into the basket on the first hole.

It was then I lost my cherub-like demeanor.

And then this happened on the second hole.

In case that picture is unclear:

An Ent stole my Frisbee. And he put it in the 32.5 degree water down an embankment; because at some point inmy life I must have stepped on an acorn.

I would have included my lack of proximity to the hole in this picture, but the hole is behind me about three miles away on the other side of the Misty Mountains. As I trudged back up the embankment, Justin asked, "Are we done, then?" Oh, baby. Are we done.

Alas proprioception, you carried me through the Narrows in Converses, but Frisbee golf in Fangorn has bested you.

Unless Justin single-handedly reaches through the Matrix to Neo-like massage some kid's heart back to beating, I get to pick the next pass-time. And it will not involve any throwing of any kind... okay, maybe throwing pizza dough. I can't imagine how that could go wrong...

To Tutu 2

Somehow it has been two years since you were born, little hurricane. Yes, time has gone fast, but it also seems like ages have past in those two years. You've done so much living for only being two, you've seen so much for a little baby weather pattern.

You've picked up your small world and moved it across the country to another small world. I am unsure what Texas has done to deserve this, but it must have been really terrible. You left best friend cousins behind to follow daddy across the big planet. You will grow up thinking Texas is home. But Texas isn't your home, lovely. Utah isn't either. From abounding grace and any amount of faithfulness, I pray that your real home will be at mommy's side in eternity, where "the wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them." Not that you can't do that now. The lions seem quite enthralled by you. But mommy will panic less when you stick your hand in the viper's pit in eternity.

You've survived nursing school. Not you personally, but you survived daddy's nursing school. It's funny to think that the brief moment of our lives encapsulated by this God-led endeavor is all you have known. You won't remember the nights when mommy got up to console you because daddy was at clinicals. You won't remember the first day you were here on this planet, and mommy woke to feed you, while daddy studied in the corner. Your mind won't recall the war that raged as daddy fought his demons, and mommy battled the alone, and God handed us a victory built of courage and miracles. You won't remember, but we will tell you again and again. Because the only way to fall in love with Yahweh is to know Him and to see Him move. You will see things I could never dream. And I pray that you learn to love your weakness that builds a monument to the strength of the One who made you and will make you new.

You've lived through allergies... so far. Milk, soy, wheat, eggs, peanuts, cashews, latex, mangoes. Do you know how hard you make it to bake a birthday cake? You will have rice rusks with dairy free frosting for your special day. But the real treat will be the venison sausage we get you at the barbecue joint down the street. The lions recognize their own: a little, baby, carnivore, weather pattern. grrr.

I'm proud, and afraid, and amazed, and in love, and furious, and worshipping. Often all at the same time. Hannah, you are strong-willed. Hear this daughter: you are strong. As strong as He has made you. And this world will shift when you speak, mountains can crumble in your faith, seas will be broken by the clench of your chubby little baby fist... If you give your spirit to your Captain. Love Him, sweetie bear. There is no better home for your soul.

The Promiscuous Wife: A Culture of Church Leavers

We just took another swing at a new church in Texas, and were called on strike seven. When you try seven churches without success in a new place, you begin to question whether you are perhaps being too picky, looking for something that does not exist, or even, if you are outside the will of God in this place. None of these are reasonable assumptions, but as the depressing succession of Sundays rolls past, leaving you no closer to fellowship than when you started, you do wonder.

Combine with this the struggles of the church you just left in Utah, and theories start forming in the mind. Why is it so challenging to find a "good" church? What makes a "good" church? Why do people seem to leave churches like cable companies for the next best thing? Anyone who has spent any amount of time in an evangelical christian church knows that we live in a modern culture of church leavers. When did this become not only acceptable, but our right as believers?

In Ephesians 5 the relationship between Christ and the church is given as a parallel to the relationship between husbands and wives. The church is the bride of Christ. Christ gave himself up for her, loves her, nourishes her, and is encouraging her to greater things, to a more perfect life. The church in turn offers beautiful submission to Christ, serves His plan before her own, and acts in obedience to the will of the One who gave everything for her good. It is an incredible picture of temporal marriage and eternal submission.

Why not view the relationship between a believer and the church the same way? It is not necessarily written down in Scripture, it is just my own perspective, but from my studies it seems consistent with the character of God and His plan for us.

Why it is hard to find a "good" church (and what that means):

I have heard so many people say of churches, both those following the will of God and those in disobedience in some area (or many areas), that they walked in and it just "felt right." There are many variations of this idea: "I felt such peace here", "I experienced joy here the second I came in", "the people were so kind, it felt like home". This is the love at first sight church relationship. You walk in and something elemental or temporal feeds your senses and emotions. You have an "experience" that leaves you feeling blissful, loved, and comfortable. Love at first sight in finding a church is just like love at first sight when seeing a person. You have a connection based on the appearance or demeanor of an individual that sparks an emotional response. It feels very good, and it feels very real.

But it isn't.

I'm not saying that love at first sight cannot work, but there has to be substance, character, and perseverance behind the initial experience. We love entering a new relationship and having the exciting, romantic feeling, but it will not outlast the superficialness of infatuation.

Something will happen, and the church will not "feel right" anymore. They will hire a staff member that you don't like. They will not manage funds in a way you approve. Someone will be unkind, and suddenly the church that was so loving, doesn't feel so much like home.

In relationships, this is why we have a culture where 50% of marriages end in divorce. He changes, she changes, annoying habits appear, old grudges poke out, and suddenly the emotional high of love at first sight vanishes in a cloud of the drudgery of life. Perhaps this is the same reason we change churches like we change our socks: because it was based on emotion and appearances from the beginning.

Emotions are so tempting. We visited a church that was the right size, had people our age, sang songs I knew and loved, had a dynamic time of worship, and had a women's ministry. It felt wonderful. I was thoroughly encouraged by being there. Sure, they had a woman give a devotional in authority over men. Yes, they believed in the miraculous gifts as still relevant for today. Okay, so the pastor read into the text, to pull out what he needed it to say. But it felt so wonderful. So much like home.

Justin and I will not attend that church again. Because one day they will pick a song I despise. One day one of these nice people will be a jerk. One day they will get much bigger or much smaller and it won't feel so homey. And when that day comes (as it will in every single church. Let me say it again: it will happen in every church!), there will be no reason to stay. There is no substance there, no commitment to truth, no commitment to the will of God over the tug of modern thought. So regardless of how desperate I am for a home, how desperate I am for the love of other Christians, it is better to be patient now, to avoid pain later.

And that's really why it is hard to find a church. Because you have to wait and pick the right one. Before I was married the primary piece of relational advice strong, mature Christians gave me was this: pick a man you can joyfully submit to in all things. The work of making a marriage work is a lot easier when you do it before ever walking down the aisle. I would die for my husband. I would live in poverty or pain or peril for my husband. I would live this life day to day unchanged doing dishes, vacuuming floors, and never seeing a glimmer of excitement because my husband is awesome! He strives with his every living breath to care for me as Christ cared for the church. Our marriage rocks; because we waited for substance, quality, and character.

You want to stay at your church forever? Pick a church worth staying at. Pick a good church.

And there is only one thing that makes a good church: unflinching, unwavering commitment to the complete, inerrant truth of God's word.

Everything else is in there. A church that hungrily devours the word of God will worship with passion. It doesn't matter if it is with organ or drums or guitar or didgeridoo, it will be with passion. A church in love with the Bible will love you unconditionally and forgive your faults and work to restore you to fellowship because that is what God has asked in His book. A church who knows their Bible and has let it saturate their minds to the point of effecting every decision made will handle finances, ministries, missions, and discipline in the will of God. Maybe not the way you like, but in His plan.

There is no perfect church, just like there is no perfect spouse. But pick a good one, and you will find yourself able to forgive every fault, committed to this home until the end of all things; because there is integrity under it all.

It seems like a tall order to do all this work. I already had to select a good spouse; I have to labor at finding a church too? Why bother? I can leave at any time and find one that I like better.

You work because of the reward. Because if you stick it out with your church you will grow closer to them than to your own family. They will stand by you in all things, and you will have the joy of using your gifts to bless others. You will have a place and a purpose and a hope. But even all of this is not the reward.

Your reward is that glory will be brought to the Name of our matchless, omni-loving, Creator God who bled on the cross, and defeated death for the sake of your one spirit. You will bring Him glory. And that is enough. That is enough to persevere. That is enough to struggle.

That ought to be enough to not step out on your church. I am guilty of it. Maybe there is something better out there, people our age, people like us, better worship, more moving sermons, convenient Bible study times, something else. I'm not saying it is adultery to visit another church. I'm saying it is adultery to visit another church with the intention of finding something better for yourself. It all comes back to selfishness. What about my needs? My preferences? My friends? What about my style, my voice, my heart? He was mean, she is boring, they are different. It doesn't suit me.

The reason God did not make me a pastor's wife is because I'm mean. He is working on me. But it's a process. So here it is: the mean:

Tough.

He wronged me.

Tough. That's your church. Take some initiative. Take some responsibility. Fix it. Don't abandon your marriage church because of one slight. Not because of two. Not because of seventy times seven (Matthew 18). It is not about you. It is about God's will: unity in the body (Ephesians 4). It is about the love of Christ covering a multitude of sins (1 Peter 4). Forgive as Christ forgave you (Ephesians 4).

I don't like the pastor's preaching.

Tough. Does he speak the truth? Does he challenge you to live your new life in Christ? Are you doing your part to study what he says, to read for yourself, to apply it daily, to meditate on his words and more importantly The Word all week? Your preference for his style is not reason enough to step out on your family. Tough.

I don't like all that clamor they call worship.

Tough. Do they praise the name of Jesus? Are you doing your part to fall flat on your face before God and pour out every blessing and adoration of which your human brain can conceive regardless of the clamor you yourself may be? I don't like his voice would not be a good enough reason to step out on your husband, don't use it to weasel out on your church.

Just like there is only one thing that makes a good church, there is only one reason for leaving a church: Failure of the leadership to adore the Word of God. If they let gross sin reign in the body, or if they teach any doctrine other than what is printed in the sixty-six books of God's revealed Bible, you get an out. That's it. And you best be about addressing the problem before sneaking off like a coward.

Too mean?

Sorry.

My point is this: God takes marriage seriously. He says he hates divorce (Malachi 2). He refuses to listen to men's prayers when they do not honor their wives (1 Peter 3). Marriage is the first divine institution He establishes, and He deems it physically, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually a union not to be broken by men (Genesis 2). He takes purity in marriage seriously.

Perhaps if we viewed our relationship with our church as a marriage, we would begin to understand God's heart for our church and for us. He takes our choice to participate in the local body seriously. He gave us gifts for our church and for His glory. He gives us brothers and sisters so that the world might see His divine love and compassion poured out. When we leave our home, God takes it seriously. His will is this: "If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men." (Romans 12:18) The call is somber, but the reward is joy. Love your church, friends. Really really love them. Understand the will of God. Really really really love.

An Ode to Bush's Chicken and the End of Humanity as We Know It

Justin and I travelled to Texas to look for a home two weeks before we moved here. Our realtor was stuck with us for the better part of 24 hours. And we were basically picking up our babies and dragging them to a whole new world so we had A LOT of questions. Justin asked about golf courses in central Texas, and whether there were any rock gyms. I asked about schools, churches, and modern dance companies. To his credit, Mr. Realtor was very knowledgeable. A strike against him: he had to ask what modern dance was. (And a little part of me, somewhere deep in my soul, gulped with dread.)

My husband was watching shops and homes go by out the window as we drove from house to house. "Oh, hey, Bush's chicken," he commented. "Is that like KFC?"

A look came over our realtor's face. It is the look of a man with a dark past, addiction from thirty years ago, creeping back into the consciousness. The look of a man facing his demons. "No," he croaked out. "Bush's chicken; that's where you go when you want to be really bad." (Note: Bush's is right next to Spec's, and the man said Bush's is where you go to be bad.) "Bush's makes KFC look like organic, grass-fed poultry."

The day of the semi-hurricane, when the traumas were pouring into the PICU at the hospital, and nurses were declaring that there would be the drinking of much rum that night, they ordered lunch for the floor. The lunch they selected was Bush's.

The problem with this town is that it closes on Sunday night. You can still drive through it, but don't expect to see any other human beings or open fine dining restaurants. The only things open on a Sunday night are the cheap, bag-less grocery store and Bush's.

So, by default, in spite of our better judgement, we decided to get Bush's. They don't have an intercom box at Bush's. They don't even have an organized lane. You just sort of pull up to the side of the restaurant, and wait nervously with both hands on the steering wheel. A Bush's henchman slinks up to your car with a blank piece of paper and a pen. He doesn't ask what you want, he just raises his eyebrows. You both know why you're there. You give your order. A six hundred pound man in overalls, who drove in on his tractor in stares through you, zombie-like, and licks his chops.

A moment later, the little chicken henchman returns carrying a concerningly large and oddly shaped bag. It either contains your order or a dead body. Perhaps it's some efficiency worked out between the fried chicken industry and the local morgue. Take dinner home in the same bag the EMTs carry you out in. You shudder as the exchange is completed, feeling you may have just negotiated a hostage release. You drive home quickly, open the frightful bag, and are greeted by this:

Chipper, huh?

Since moving to Texas I have gained some weight. It is a new culture here, there are many stresses, and I am home all day with people who think fruit snacks are ambrosia. I haven't gained a lot of weight, but enough to make me attempt some level of diet. 

But you pull that box out, and BLAM! Take that kale! I'll have to eat nothing but apples for the next week in order to recover.

We pulled out the standard Styrofoam containers of side dishes and popped them open. There was one family size container full of gravy. "What is this for?" I asked Justin. He demonstrated, now an expert in this masochism, that you are supposed to dunk the fried chicken in the gravy. In case you aren't satisfied with the current rate of your chosen destruction.

Halfway through dinner I saw a little container amongst the chicken and bread. "Ooh what's this?" I asked. (My stomach was hoping for applesauce, but my brain didn't let it get its' hopes up.) Justin plucked it from the grease and popped the top:

Huh. Back up gravy. Nifty.

In the next photos, my daughter will display appropriate posture for the consumption of Bush's chicken.

Noah is picky. Very picky. Any new food he tries, is a victory. I nearly died with glee when he ate a grilled cheese sandwich. Protein is his nemesis. No hamburger, no bacon, no ham, no turkey. No no no no.

The kid ate four Bush's Chicken chicken tenders:

And I said the following words to my child, my pride and joy, my baby buddy, the blessing I spent 21 hours giving birth to (18.5 of which were without an epidural): I HATE YOU.

Of course. Of course, the one protein he will eat will cause him a heart attack by the age of six.

So there you are. If you're looking for trouble in Texas, if you want to be really bad, Bush's is what you want.

I'm not that girl

I mean, I am that girl, but I'm not that girl that you hate. I'm that girl, but not so much that you smile politely while throwing up a little in your mouth.

Meeting new people is just terrible. Do those first few moments ever go well? There is another young man, who started in the PICU at the same time Justin did. They are going through an internship together, and so, see quite a bit of each other. He has a lovely little wife (who is taller than me) and a new baby boy. The unit decided to have a barbecue together and invite all the families. I nearly bounded into the car. Friend! Adult! Conversation! my brain silently cheered.

Upon arrival I met this sweet woman and put my best face forward; because who would ever want to start a relationship with someone as real as we are in the ick.

Yet, somehow the conversation kept turning me into that girl. I couldn't stop it. Probably because I am that girl. But I don't mean it like that.

You know that girl:

• The dancer/artist who thinks about space and time as if they were actual things.
• She has an MFA, and a BA, and  BFA, and hasn't had a concrete, rational thought since high school.
• She teaches Pilates, focuses on her breathing, and eats chopped salads with kale in them for lunch.
• Her daughter is gluten free.
• And dairy free.
• And soy free.
• Cause we're just that cool.

I hate that girl.

And she is me.

Every time my mouth started moving my brain wanted to interject:

• Yes, I'm a dancer, but I watch football, so it's ok. I'm not weird or anything.
• Yes, I have too many art degrees, but I don't think I'm better than you because I read Kant. (In fact, I might be a little worse.)
• Yes, I teach Pilates and eat kale, but I also play Battle for Middle Earth for 3 hour stretches, and I consume Swiss Rolls and pizza. Kind of a lot. So we're cool. Because I'm not really Kale Girl.
• Yes, my daughter is gluten free/soy free/milk free/peanut free/egg free/latex free/cashew free, but it's because she is medically allergic to all those things. It's not like I think I'm doing her any favors by not letting her eat macaroni and cheese. I want to be the junk food mom, but I also want my baby to live to see her second birthday.

But you can't talk like that because you sound conflicted and defensive. And I hate that girl too.

Maybe this is why I have no friends.

It made me feel just a little bit better when my husband started doing the same thing. We were talking about incredible desserts we had experienced (because sugar is always good for conversation), and he mentioned that we had the opportunity to devour the most awesome invention in human history while vacationing in Maui: mochi ice cream. (Oh, if only I had the time to describe the inexplicable joy of mochi ice cream to you. The pages of this blog could never sustain such delight.)

My usually cool husband, stuttered and paused. "I mean, this was our first vacation of any kind in three years. We don't do that kind of trip often... or ever really. We scrimped and saved and got a tax return. I had just graduated, and it was our anniversary. It's not like... we're... you know... people who go to Maui or anything."

Right. We're not those people.

We just are a little bit. Just this one time.

Meeting new people sucks.

I wish I could just be honest: I dance, I teach pilates, I eat health food, I have a daughter who can't have gluten, and I go to Maui. But I'm not that girl. I'm really just like you...

Who are you again? I missed it.

Growing Pains

Nursing school changed us. Our faith was made malleable, then firm. Our hearts were fired, broken, and reformed in the hands of His grace. We faced our demons, faced spiritual battles, and though bruised we were never crushed. He endures, and so we endured. But in all this it was our lives in his sovereignty. It was Justin's battle, it was my perseverance, it was providence for my children. It was a great war in a very small world. In our great weakness, He proved His strength. But it was only us.

The shifts are twelve hours now. And the man who returns home at the end of half a day is different than the man who awoke at 5:00am. Families with patients in the ICU are having a life defining and faith forming (or destroying) moment. The nurses in the ICU try very hard to be unchanged every moment of every day. It is an impossible task. Some part of your heart wants to be unaffected, some part of your spirit never wants to remain unmoved.

There are things he can't tell me: patient confidentiality. So he sidles around the facts, creeps to the edge of what he is allowed to say; because he has to say something. You cannot hold so many lives alone.

Last week he did CPR on an infant. Nurses, doctors, and respiratory therapists screamed at him: too fast, too slow, push harder, don't crack ribs! And with his own lungs he called a baby back to life. It was a hopeless endeavor. His God had already called the little one home. He didn't weep. But something in his eyes was hollow.

The snarling edges of a hurricane blew through our town. The relentless rain became heartless as a truck hydroplaned. Justin ran the halls of the ICU, fetching this, recovering that, calling for help. Trauma is the nice word for don't-look-too-close. He spread lidocaine over a young skull, preparation for a drill. He came home as calm and mellow as ever. He helped put the kids to bed, he had dinner with me. If you didn't look too close, you would never catch the emotional exhaustion leaking out of the cracks in his surface. My godly man, my rock, the fortress for my children and my heart, is now strong for other families, and stands unmovable for strangers.

She has CP. This one was not easy for me to hear. Blood. It is life when it is hidden. It is death when it is seen. And he saw. Too. Much. He told me he had never been so afraid. One patient, twelve hours, a life on egg shells. But he survived, and so did she. For now. We are constantly reminded: there is no promised tomorrow. Every breath is a blessing. And with every breath he is made new.

There are boys with cancer, and girls with diabetes. There is abuse, and accidents, and sicknesses that are no accident, but you wonder 'How could this be Your plan?'

And he has stood.

I have never loved him so completely. But even more I have never respected him so fully. I see the struggle, but just as clearly I see the courage. He is growing, changing, being made new for an end we cannot yet imagine. And I take it all in. I try to stand as strong and as tall. I try to listen every night without tears. I try to have some comfort available.

It is not easy.

But it is worth it.

Because I am seeing my husband with new eyes. And he is incredible.

Where the Wild Thing Is

In an effort to prepare my Little Man for preschool we are working on shapes and colors. He is very good with both. The only color he struggles with sometimes is gray (and really? is that even a color?). Justin will ask Noah in a very secretive manner, "Ok, Noah, what is something that is red?" Noah will peer back and forth from under his eyebrows and surreptitiously point to a Utah Ute blanket, or the top of his Jake and the Neverland Pirates cup. When he is right (which is always) we tell our bright lad that he has done a good job.

As a side note, the other day I was working in the office as my darling children were supposed to be sleeping. I heard Noah playing, story-telling, and the like. Then I heard the following exchange:

Noah: Ok, Monkey, what is something that is yellow?
Monkey: silence (but I assume there was gesturing going on because Noah followed up with...)
Noah: No, Monkey, that's not yellow, try again.
Monkey: silence (but more educated pointing)
Noah: That's right Monkey! The top of the boat is yellow. Good job, Monkey!
Me: muffled laughter and chortling

One day we asked Noah where is something that is green. His face broke into a big grin, and he pointed a finger at his little chubby kid smile. "Noah's teeth are green!" He declared.

Now, just to be clear, we brush our kids' teeth every night, and despite milk and juice addictions, their little chompers are pearly white. We aren't the kind of parents to just let their beloveds' teeth rot to green in their skulls.

"Your teeth are green?!" I asked aghast.

Noah grinned even bigger and nodded vigorously. He then informed me that he also has red eyes. And lifting his adorable pudgy wrists with digits flexing into a curl, he mentioned that he has claws. "What about your fingers?" I asked.

"No," he said in apparent distress. "Noah doesn't have fingers, Noah has claws. ... ROAR!"

And I'll buy that he's a monster. We can play this game for awhile. But my Little Man Monster is going to have to toughen up to make it in monster land. After pinching his forefinger in some Lego's, Noah ran over to me on the verge of tears and wailed, "I hurt my claw!" And yes, mommy had to kiss his claw better. ...

Let's Never Do that Again

My husband turned to me with the look of a man who is talked down off the edge because it would be too tiring to jump, and that man who I pledged to hold to in good, bad, and worse muttered the phrase, "Let's never do that again."

Rewind 34 hours.

I just said goodbye to my world. The ecstatic high of speaking at our church's women's retreat, being surrounded by friends and relations I'd known for years, was followed up by the dramatic low of packing everything I owned into a truck, realizing the truck had no address to go to, selling our house, and sleeping on couches for a couple nights. And then we had to say goodbyes.

The worst was saying goodbye to my sister-in-law. It took us forever to become friends. (That would be my fault. I am not conducive to be-friendings.) Now, I could call her at any time and know she would have the wisdom, the optimism, and the vicious bite I needed when in the throes of almost taking something on this planet seriously. I don't hold tightly to people. Some may see it as callousness, but it's my personality. I want folk to be useful. I want them to risk and choose and make a difference. I want people to serve a purpose, not my purpose, but a purpose. When they don't, they drift away, and I can't muster the hootzbah to reel them back in. But I wept leaving my sister-in-law. Because she is purpose, passion, and courage incarnate. In a world where I find it easier to grow enormous beanstalks and slay giants than to befriend another woman, she took up the adventure beside me.

And then the worst was saying goodbye to my wing girl. And I just want to ask why we all say we need a Goose? He dies people. So, I'll fall on that sword: I needed a Maverick. I was Goose, and I needed the star of the show to find value in me. I needed a woman who had big ideas, and wanted to do things, and blamed her drunk dead German ancestors every time she cried (which was right up along the lines of never. That's a girl I can get behind). Read the blog. I don't need to re-write it here. She's awesome. All that nice, but slightly untrue stuff she said about me (and really, Miss Pastor's Wife, we're going to lie in writing for all the world to see? bad form), I believe that about her, but for real. And we had to say goodbye. I didn't cry. But it's only because my dead German ancestors were sobered up by too much coffee and a swift slap in the face.

And then the worst was saying goodbye to my dog. He climbed into Grandma and Grandpa's car and sat there with that big stupid grin on his face, and I wept. He's obnoxious. But apparently I love him.

And then the worst was saying goodbye to our parents. My dad just held my son. He held him while everyone else was hugging, crying, and goodbye-ing. He didn't cry. And he didn't let him go. My mom just kept telling me it would all work out, that it would be alright. Because she has had to be courageous for years. She has had to hold people up unseen, but vibrantly beautiful. She wanted to make it well. And in my spirit I believe her, but my heart was broken.

Still puffy, we closed on our house and got on the road, hoping to reach Texas by dinnertime the next day. The kids had never been in the car for more than forty-five minutes in a spurt. We were now going to drive them 23 hours across country. What could go wrong?

Our last Sunday at our church I sang a song, "It Is Well." This has been the lesson of the last years. Mountains thrown into the sea, oceans broken for us, through it all it is well.

And I believed this, right up until I locked the keys in the trunk.

And we called the lock smith three times, and upon the third call they declared they had never heard of us before, so we called another locksmith, and we got back on the road three hours later.

And the bored cops in New Mexico pulled us over, despite the fact that we were the only people on the road and driving quite conservatively for the abandoned middle of the desert.

And the AC went out. At 2:00 in the afternoon. In New Mexico.

And we got lost. My fault. Directionally-challenged.

And we got pulled over again in the middle of Podunk, Texas at 2:30 in the morning, for going 76 in a 70 mile per hour zone. And as my husband desperately pleaded our case to the police officer, indicating his sleeping children in the back, the upside down map in his wife's hands, and the lack of coffee in his system, the officer felt himself a right good chap to let us off with a warning. But he didn't help us figure out where we are. He just left us there.

And we got lost in our soon-to-be home town. And we stopped to ask a guy outside a gas station. Who was either new to town himself or high. I'm going with high due to the massive donut in his hand.

And when we got to our hotel room there was one full size bed for all of us, so we made a nest of pillows and blankets for Noah on the floor. Because there's nothing like rewarding your child for being a traveling stud like a warm snuggly floor. They found a crib for Hannah, which we wedged between the desk and the bed.

As we peeled our contacts off our eyes, and collapsed into bed at a time when I would normally be getting up, my husband uttered the phrase, "Let's never do that again."

The next morning, I found this crumbled in the bottom of my backpack. I had scrawled it out at work. For no rational reason. Nothing was wrong at the time. I was just ruminating on the phrase. So after the voyage from hell, I read these words:

It is well.

Satisfied. Peaceful.

I am saved, assured, always and forever, my sin removed as far as the east is from the west, by the blood of my King, I am saved. It is well; because I have assurance.

God is good. Whatever darkness comes, whatever tragedy, pain, loss, grief, temptation, or sin, God is good. It is well; because He is good and creates goodness.

God is sovereign. He is on the throne. It is well because there is one Power who holds sway in my life, and It is a power of passionate affection. He is never inattentive, or unloving. It is well; because of who He is.

God provides. Whatever we need, He provides. Courage, counsel, grace, peace, joy, time, energy, family, friends, faith, finances. It is well because He delights to give when we need.

We can hope perfectly. I am a daughter of the King. I am promised an inheritance, an eternity in glory, an eternity of glory. It is well; because heaven is not far off.

Because I choose for it to be well. I choose to believe that my God is bigger, stronger, greater, better, more loving, kinder, more powerful, more in control, more than more of everything I hope in. It is well because I can make a choice, and I choose to be satisfied in Christ.

Best Day Yet, Which Could Have Been Better

Texas did not start out as overly kind. It put crickets in the ceiling, and no furniture in the house, and confusing one way roads with bored police officers. However, we are settling in, and things are looking up.

We found a zoo. This was a good day.

We decided to buy a membership because thus far besides parks and walking around the mall, Texas is dull. There is a park by the lake where we can go swimming... I'm sure it will be lovely in July... When half of it isn't under water.

Back to the zoo. There will be more of this...

And more of these guys...

And maybe there will be more of Jennifer. Grrr.

We were leaving the giraffes. This is not as easy a task as it sounds. (On the way home I asked Noah four times what his favorite part of the zoo was and I got four different answers from bears, to fish, to yee-haw horse [my son is becoming a Texan, see above photo]. However, when I asked Hannah four times what her favorite part of the zoo was, she responded exactly the same each time: "Gee-Raff.") As we headed down the boardwalk a young mom with a boy in a stroller passed us, she smiled politely and I said hello. We proceeded toward the elephants.

But a moment later the same young woman came jogging back to us. "Hey, I just wanted to ask, do you live in Waco?" I shook my head and told her we are in Temple. "Oh," she said disappointed. "Our church is having a Harvest Festival with candy, games, and rides, and I thought your kids might love it. You'd be so welcome to come." And, at this moment, I considered moving to Waco. We talked for about ten minutes about us moving here and struggling to find a church, and she said she would definitely pray for us, that we would find a home soon. We said we would pray for her neck and shoulder that she would get relief from the chronic pain (which means her church doesn't believe in the gift of healing, hurray!). This was the first conversation I've had with an adult other than Justin since moving here. Noah started getting antsy to see the rhinos, so I apologetically said farewell. She helped her boy say goodbye and Jesus loves you.

And my half desperate brain thought, "Yeah? Well, I hate you. (yes I am devolving in maturity) How dare you be the only person in this state you has shown a vested interest in our well-being, while living over an hour away from us. How dare you be nice and kind and saved and live in Waco? Curse you, potential friend, who lives in another city.

When I got home Justin asked if I got her number. ... Curse me and my years of awkward, anti-socialness that has made me too culturally illiterate to realize I can ask for a freakin' number.

But other than missing out on a friend, the zoo was a good day.