On Just Breathing (But also using the word "bowel" . . . sorry.)

Sometimes I do Lamaze even though I’m not giving birth or even carrying a child.  At least, it’s what I imagine Lamaze breathing to be, having never actually given birth sans epidural.

But I do the breathing all the time  because of a chronic digestive disorder from which I suffer.  I have IBS, which is short for Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  Lovely, I know.  If I could hand-pick an affliction, I would certainly not choose one with the word “bowel” in it.  But, alas, I was only afflicted, never consulted.

It started seventeen years ago during my senior year in college.  It plagued me through my student teaching and my inaugural year in the classroom.  It followed me to law school where it worsened, thanks to the added stress and poor sleeping habits.  Over the years it has waxed and waned.  There’ve been weeks, even months if I’m really lucky, where I could almost forget about it.

And then there are times like now.  I’ve just come out of a good season; during the entire month of October I suffered only a handful of attacks.  But November and December have ushered it back with a vengeance.

It’s during times like this that you’ll find me lying in bed doing my “whale breathing” as David calls it.  It sounds a lot like Lamaze breathing I imagine. 

But focusing on the breathing is how I take my mind off the pain.  And in the breathing, I pray.  Breathe in; breathe out.  Breathe in; breathe out.  “Jesus.  Jesus.  Jesus.  Jesus.”  “Please, God.  Please, God.  Please, God.  Please, God.”

They’re not eloquent prayers, but the truest ones rarely are.

In a pig sty of self-pity I wallowed last night, wondering how I could possibly endure another seventeen or twenty-five or forty years of this.  Of game boards set up but never played with my children.  Cleaning supplies gathered in a burst of feeling good but sitting unused after all.  Plans canceled, work obligations dreaded. 

The thing about an illness like this is that you might see me in the grocery store at 2:00 feeling just fine and never believe that at 3:15 I would be completely debilitated and down for the count.

So as I lie in bed last night praying through one breath at a time as my kids were tucked in to bed by their dad instead me, I asked rhetorically for the millionth time, “Why?” What purpose could this possibly serve?:  In addition to the scriptures that often weave in and out of my thoughts during such times of distress, the words to one of my favorite Bebo Norman songs wandered into my mind last night:

Take me to the desert
You will be the water
I will drink forever to fill my soul

And lead me through the fire
Of darkness and desire
You will be my shelter
You will be my shelter

I'll find You there
I'll find You there

It's here that I call out
It's here that I fall down
It's here that I find out
That You are everything I hoped You'd be.**

If I could choose, I would find another place, another way, for me to call out, to fall down, to find out that He’s everything.  But I can’t choose the medium God ordains to bring me to my knees and, thereby, to Himself.

If I could choose, I’d spend the evening doing, being, working.  I’d get dressed for court in the morning and think of nothing but arriving on time and doing my job.

 But when I am struck down, I spend those moments instead breathing in, breathing out.  One breath at a time.  Jesus.  Jesus.  Jesus. 

It makes life a lot harder, but I’ve learned that we often find Jesus in the "harder."  How else could He be the water in my desert and the shelter in my fire?

So, if you can't find me, I’ll just be here breathing.  Jesus.  Jesus.  Jesus.

(And for the record, I think writing a blog post about a bowel condition qualifies me for martyrdom all on its own.  Okay, God?)

(Also for the record, if I cancel upcoming plans in the month of December, don’t take it personally.  I’m just having a really rough month.)

** Everything I Hoped You'd Be, by Jason Ingram and Bebo Norman, copyright Brentwood- Benson Music

Writer(s): Jason Ingram, Bebo Norman
Copyright: Brentwood-benson Music, Windsor Hill Music, Sony/ATV Timber Publishing, West Main Music
Read more at http://www.songlyrics.com/bebo-norman/everything-i-hoped-you-d-be-lyrics/#DDXRciueJIfwsrsH

Writer(s): Jason Ingram, Bebo Norman
Copyright: Brentwood-benson Music, Windsor Hill Music, Sony/ATV Timber Publishing, West Main Music
Read more at http://www.songlyrics.com/bebo-norman/everything-i-hoped-you-d-be-lyrics/#DDXRciueJIfwsrsH.99

Writer(s): Jason Ingram, Bebo Norman
Copyright: Brentwood-benson Music, Windsor Hill Music, Sony/ATV Timber Publishing, West Main Music
Read more at http://www.songlyrics.com/bebo-norman/everything-i-hoped-you-d-be-lyrics/#DDXRciueJIfwsrsH.99

On dishwashers, snake-sniffing, and superfluous language

Some snippets that are unworthy of a post of their own but that need to be freed from the clutter of my mind:

1.  

I've been playing this game lately with a steak knife that someone (to whom I'm married) used to open a package.  It is now covered in sticky tape gunk that won't come off in the dishwasher, so every time I unload the dishwasher I place said knife next to the sink so that I can scrub it by hand later.  I inexplicably forget that the next time I load the dishwasher, and I stick it back in without thinking.  Of course, upon unloading, I discover it anew.  Rinse and repeat.  I've been playing this game for at least two weeks now, and I don't seem to be winning.

On a related note, I usually set our dishwasher on a four-hour delay so it will run at night while we're sleeping.  If, however, someone opens it the door to put something else in it and forgets to press Start again, I will awaken to a dishwasher full of still-dirty dishes in the morning. 

A few mornings ago I commented to David that this was why there were no clean spoons.  I said, "I'm not accusing you, but someone put something in the dishwasher last night and didn't press start." 

His response: "What are the odds that someone other than you put something in the dishwasher?" 

Me: What were the odds that your laziness would someday serve you so well?

2. 

I'm convinced Joshua will have his own television show someday.  "The Snake Sniffer."  He loves to hunt snakes in the summertime, and I am always amazed at how many he finds.  I go outside all the time and return home snake-free, so where does he find all these snakes?  How does he find all these snakes.

I asked him.

"I can smell them," says he.

You're joking, I replied, you can't possibly walk through the woods and smell snakes. Yes, I can, he says.  He claims that he gets down close to the rocks (because that's what they usually hide under) and can smell when there are snakes under the rocks.  Given the number of snakes he finds, I have no choice but to assume this is true.

Now, if only this olfactory gift could be put to some better use than finding snakes.  Like sniffing out gold.  Or oil.  Heck, I'd settle for dirty socks.  Those, he can't seem to smell at all.

3.  

Lastly, I just want to share a pet peeve.  (Which, in case you didn't know is something that really annoys you.  The other day I was speaking with a fellow attorney who used the phrase to refer to something she cared passionately about in a positive way.  I heroically refrained from telling her that people using phrases incorrectly is one of my pet peeves.  Unless you're my friend, C, in which case it's endearing.  But ONLY her.)

Sooooo,  my pet peeve du jour:  the phrases "I'd just like to say . . ." or "I want to say . . . " 

There is no need to tell me that you WANT to say something.  Just say it.  No more, "I want to say thanks to everyone who helped me . . .."  or "I'd just like to wish so-and-so a happy birthday."

Just say it already! No need to be superfluous about it.

And, while we're at it, could you change the recording on your voice mail if it says that I've reached you when clearly the fact that I am listening to your voice mail recording means that I have most assuredly NOT reached you? 

Thanks to my brother's pointing this one out years ago, it has driven me bananas since.  (Note I didn't say "ever since" because that is another redundant phrase; eliminate it, too, while you're making all these positive changes.  You'll thank me someday.  And when you do, don't preface it by telling me that you'd like to.)

4.

Okay, so I couldn't let my last one be all ranty and negative.  So, I'll add one more.

I have cute puppies.

There, much better.

On Being Broken

I’ve been broken.  For a while now.

It didn’t happen all at once.  It happened slowly like the changing of the leaves in the Fall from green to yellow to orange to gone.  If you pay close enough attention, you can see the slight changes, but mostly you just look one day and notice they’ve changed, and then you look again and they’re gone.

That’s what happened to me.  One day I was Me, and then when I looked again, I was a little less Me.  Not wanting to inspect the situation too closely for fear of what I might find, I carried on with the Not Looking until one day there was no escaping the absence of Me. 

If you don’t live near me, or if you don’t know me well enough to see it, you may not even have known.  Maybe you thought my leaves were always an orangy-yellow, or maybe you were mistaken about my having had leaves at all.  But the truth is my leaves were once full and bright and green. 

Until they started dying.

I don’t know how it started.  Our bodies are mysterious things.  People talk about physical pain and emotional distress and mental illness as if there are many separate parts of a person, but the truth is I have only one body, and all the parts of it make up just one Me. 

There has been physical pain in the last few years.  A lot of different kinds and for a lot of different reasons.  They say that chronic pain can lead to depression, but it’s hard for me to trace the exact path that took me from, “The scar tissue on my kidney won’t stop flaring up” or “My painful digestive disorder is incapacitating me” to “I want to hide under my covers for the rest of my life.”  Yet that’s where I ended up.

The thing about being broken is we always want to hide it.  When my leaves were bright and green, I didn’t mind showing them to the world.  I loved being a part of the world.  I participated in it fully, welcomed it, welcomed you.  But when I began to break, I began to hide.  It’s exhausting to try to make those ugly brown dying leaves look green, and let’s face it, who wants to look at brown leaves?  It’s easier just to tuck them away so no one can see.  But it’s in the tucking that the disappearing begins.

At some point I begin to notice that I was spending too much time in my bed.  Too much time in the cozy cocoon of cotton and down.  But I liked it there.  When I was in that safe place of my own making, I could drown out the Voice.  The one that said, “You’re failing everyone.”  Because if I let myself listen, that Voice had a lot to say. 

“You’re not a good mom.  What a lousy example your setting for your children.” 

“You’re not working hard enough at your job.” 

“You’re failing your husband.” 

"You're not praying or reading your Bible. What kind of Christian are you?"

“Your house is falling apart.” 

“You’re failing at everything.”

And that’s not the half of it.  I bet you know the Voice.  Maybe it hasn’t broken you, but I bet you’ve heard it whispering nonetheless.  It’s never content to limit its quiver of arrows to the present either.  As if being a failure right now isn’t bad enough, The Voice likes to fashion arrows from the mistakes and the pain of yesterday and to sharpen their points on fears of tomorrow.

So for quite some time now, I’ve been trying to hide from the Voice.  I’ve hidden in my bed.  I’ve hidden in my house.  I’ve hidden from my family and my friends and from the world because surely if I could hear it, you could hear it, too.  So, instead of trying to make my leaves look all pretty and green and alive, I just let them fall off altogether.

There was a day when I noticed my leaves were gone.  Noticed I was broken.  That was about a year ago.  But it was just too hard to try to put them back.  To grow leaves again is not easy.  To fix the brokenness requires so much doing.  So I stayed broken.

Until recently.  A few months ago I decided that maybe it wasn’t all or nothing.  The idea of trying to put back all my leaves – all my pieces – was just too daunting.  But what if I could find just one?  Just one piece of Me that might still be there?  One green leaf?

So, I made plans.  I don’t mean A Plan.  Not a plan to fix me, but plans with someone to do something.  Because the old Me did things.  Lots of things.  The broken me did nothing.  Just do something, I thought.  

And I did.

And it didn’t kill me.  So I did another thing. 

I’ve been gradually doing more of the Things until I’ve recently begun to remember what my leaves used to look like.  They’re not all back, but the hope of them is.  And that’s almost enough.

I’ve been hesitant to share this because people – not unlike myself – can be so judgmental about depression and brokenness.  But, I decided I didn’t care.  One of my favorite leaves on the old Me was the writer leaf.  It’s been dead for a long time, but maybe this is what I need to write about to bring that leaf back to life.   

Besides, I suspect we’re all a little broken anyway.  If your broken doesn’t strip you bare and leave you hopeless, then praise God and pray for the rest of us.  If it does, then know you’re not alone, and maybe if all of us with no leaves stopped hiding from each other, the broken wouldn’t hurt quite so bad.  Because the comfort we get from hiding in bed in our pajamas or from eating food or not eating food or from self-medicating is that it drowns out The Voice.  But, if we could all speak loudly enough to each other from our brokenness, maybe we could do that, too.

Lenten Thoughts (first published in Feb. 2010)

I am not Catholic. I am not even episcopal. In fact, I grew up about as far removed from that as one can get: charismatic non-denominational. Some would say Pentecostal, though I personally wouldn't use that moniker.

So, what in the world am I doing observing Lent? (Heck, I can't even decide whether it ought to be capitalized.) What is this hand-raising, church-dancing, tongues-praying girl doing giving up something for Lent?

I'll tell you: I find it good for my soul.

Having gone to a catholic high school, I have seen Lent observed in many forms. To be honest, most of the Catholics I went to school with were not exactly bastions of spirituality. There were a few who seemed to genuinely love Jesus, but for the most part, I saw people going through the motions of a ritual without giving it any spiritual meaning at all.

Can't have soda with lunch . . . it's Lent. No Now & Laters for me . . . I gave up candy for Lent. No chocolate, no fast food, no swearing . . . everyone seemed ready to sacrifice something for Lent. But why?

It seemed to me like most of them were doing it because they thought it would earn them favor with God. I believe strongly that I need not do anything to earn favor with God because Jesus Christ purchased that for me on the cross, and it is mine forever.

So why sacrifice for Lent?

David and I spent the past few years in a semi-liturgical church (PCA) after having both grown up non-denominational. While I certainly missed the freedom I find in musical worship at non-denominational churches, I felt like I experienced a spiritual grounding in my soul when observing a liturgical calendar.

There is something to be said for corporately acknowledging spiritual seasons. Together we turn our hearts toward celebrating the coming of the Messiah during Advent, and together we turn our hearts toward the anticipation of His resurrection at Easter. And we are reminded of the suffering that preceded it during Lent.

Christ did not reach the point of resurrection easily or without pain. He suffered in the desert. He suffered on the cross. How much sweeter is the victory of His resurrection after remembering the pain He endured to achieve it? How much more can I share in His suffering if I prayerfully make one small sacrifice, one exercise of physical discipline with the prayer that God will use it to minister to my soul.

Lent is observed during the forty days (excluding Sundays) prior to Easter and is meant to mirror the forty days Christ fasted in the wilderness. The Bible says we are called to "share in His sufferings," and I find Lent to be a tangible way to reflect on that.

I wanted to address this because I know that most of my friends and family - who constitute the majority of my readers - do not observe Lent. Some have asked me why I do, so I thought I'd share my thoughts on the subject, elementary as they may be. Like I said, I'm not catholic, so I am not a Lenten expert, and if I've misstated anything I apologize to the Catholics whom I do know read my blog. This is my take on it, that's all.

My final thoughts: do I think observing Lent is necessary to know Christ? No. Do I think it will gain me favor with God? Not at all. Do I think it makes me a better Christian than someone else? Absolutely not.

Do I think God uses it to speak to my charismatic soul? Yes, yes, He does.

7 Quick Takes Friday

1.

I'm scared. My Blogger dashboard page says that Blogger is getting a "new look" in April, and it's asking if I want to "upgrade now." Threats of impending change like that scare me. Why can't they just leave me and my little blog alone? What's changing? Will I have to figure out new widgets? Re-crop a photo? Doesn't Blogger care that fears like this will keep me up all night?

2.

Ever notice how it's the smallest things that sometimes lead to happiness? I'm not talking about relationships here. Or life choices. Or attitude. I'm talking about something way more happiness-inducing. I went to swap out the laundry tonight - utterly dreading having to fold and put away the load from the dryer, but needing to get the wet stuff out of the washer. Guess what I found? An empty dryer! Apparently, I had already emptied it this morning. That right there, my friend, makes an otherwise lousy day all worthwhile.

3.

Joshua is sick. He stayed home from school yesterday and apparently spent the last two hours of school today in the nurse's office. She told him to lie down and rest for a bit to see if he felt better, and then she forgot about him. Or as she put it, "lost track of time." When she remembered he was there, it was ten minutes until dismissal, so it was too late to send him home. I asked him if he cared that he was there for so long, and of course he said no. It was better than being in class, I guess, sad as that may be.

4.

So tonight Joshua watched several episodes of Man vs. Food on the Travel channel. As it neared for bed, I asked him if he wanted to take the liquid medicine that he took (and complained about) last night or if he wanted to try a Nyquil gelcap. He said he wanted to try the Nyquil. He can totally swallow pills, but I showed him that this one is larger than the ibuprofen or Benadryl he's used to taking.

He saw the size of the gelcap, took a long, deep breath, and said, "Alright, mom . . . this is man vs. pill. I gotta tell you the truth . . . I'm a little scared."

He put it in his mouth and promptly spit it down the drain. There went a dollar.

5.

Update: In the 24 hours that have past between the writing of QT #4 and QT #5, I have taken Josh to the doctor. He has strep. Again. Third time this school year. Oh and Lauren came home from school crying of a tummy ache and promptly had, um shall we say "uncontrollable?", diarrhea. Splendid. Don't everyone beat the door down trying to come visit us at once, okay?

The worst part is Lauren told me that she went to the nurse's office twice today at school complaining about her stomach. I know it must be hard for the nurses/teachers to know the right solution when I'm sure at least 100 kids a day complain of tummy aches, but seriously?! The day after you kept my son sitting in the nurse's office for two hours because you forgot about him, you're going to keep sending my daughter back to class when she clearly felt horrible? (She said she laid on the bottom of a slide during the entire recess because her stomach hurt too much to play and that she didn't eat her snack for the same reason.) The school will be hearing from this momma soon.

6.

On a happier note, I introduced my family to the Marx Brothers today. I grew up watching them, so it felt like reconnecting with old friends for me. Joshua has long been convinced that nothing good can come in black and white film, so I had to convince him to give it a shot. We watched Go West (my favorite of them all) while he was home from school this afternoon, then we watched At the Races tonight. Can't go wrong with Groucho.

7.

I made this cake for Easter Sunday.


It's a banana cake with lemon cream cheese frosting and raspberry filling. Just thought I'd leave you with a happy thought. You're welcome.

Head to Conversion Diary to check out more Quick Takes.

What I would have said (a short political soapbox)

I’ve been hearing a lot about Nikki Haley lately. If you haven’t, she’s the governor of South Carolina. An Indian-American Republican woman. I think I like her. She seems articulate, intelligent, friendly, and conservative. However, I saw a short clip of her appearance on The View today, and she was asked this question: Most people think of women as liberals. How do you reconcile being a woman and a Republican with conservative values? How does that reflect on women’s issues? (I’ve paraphrased the question.) Her answer was something along the lines of, “Women don’t care about contraception; they care about jobs, the economy, raising their families . . ..” In her defense I think what she meant was that women don’t care *only* about contraception, which the media are making into an enormous distraction from real issues, but her answer did not go over well. However, the question got me thinking, and I’d like to give a different answer. So, here’s what I would have said:

There is no such thing as a “woman’s issue.” There are just issues. If the media or anyone else were to characterize something as a “men’s issue,” women would have a conniption. Imagine if we called war a “men’s issue.” Or the stock market. Or firefighter safety. Anything that men do, or historically have, participated in more often than women. We would be outraged, and rightly so. Those things affect all of us, and we should all be entitled to have an opinion and a say regarding them.

The same is true of contraception. Abortion. Rape shield laws. All of the things that feminists tout as “women’s issues” affect us all. A woman may be the only one who can have an abortion, but a man fathered the child. The child would have grown up to be a man or a woman; we don’t know which. The woman who has the abortion has a father, perhaps a brother. Does it not affect them? What about the rest of the unnamed, unknown individuals whose lives may have been changed by the existence of the child who was never born? How about the husband whose wife can’t have children because of a complication from an abortion she had years before?

To say that abortion is a “woman’s issue” is absurd. All issues affect all people. Not to mention the fact that even if they don’t directly affect me, I can still have an opinion about them. My personal life is not affected very much by the child-trafficking industry in southeast Asia, but I certainly have an opinion about it.

You can come down on either side of an issue. Maybe you believe more strongly in a woman’s right to have an abortion. Maybe you believe more strongly in a child’s right to be born. Regardless of what gender you are, you get to choose which opinion to have. Don’t tell me I have to support abortion rights or that I must support a mandate for health care or contraception just because I am a woman.

The same is true of “race issues.” How dare we try to make all black people fit into a mold? A black man may be conservative; he may be liberal. A black woman may choose to send her child to public school; she may homeschool. She may support affirmative action; she may believe it is unconstitutional. Give her the option to use her God-given brain and form an opinion.

How would I reconcile being a woman and a conservative? Easy. I’m a person with an intellect, and I have used it to draw conclusions about what I support and what I do not. It’s called freedom, and I'm a fan of it.

Things that make me go hmmmm

My apologies to Arsenio Hall, but there are a few things on my mind lately that I just can't quite understand. Maybe you can help me.

1. On the Today show, whenever they go to commercial, they always say that such and such is coming up after the break, "But first, This is Today on NBC." What does that mean? I do not get it. I mean, it would make sense if they said "Taylor Swift after the break, but first here are some commercials" or "but first, a word from our sponsors." However, "But first, this is the name of our show" I don't get. This is one reason I watch Good Morning America instead. That and I hate the sound of Ann Curry's voice. She always sounds so serious and pensive. "So you found the summer's hottest new designer swimsuits for 1/220th of the cost," she says in her deep, I'm-reporting-something-very-intense voice, "What must that be like for you emotionally?" Um, Ann, if you're reporting fluff, be light-hearted, and don't use the same tone you used to interview parents whose six children just died in a freak pop rocks accident.

However, even if Ann Curry was fired (not that I'm wishing that on her), I don't think I could bear hearing them say, "But first, this is Today on NBC." Can't take it.

2. The warm weather has been teasing us off and on for about a month now. And in northern PA, warm weather means road work. I can understand this; there is usually a limited number of months to get it done before the snow and ice return. But, every. single. day of spring and summer? This has been going on since we moved here, and I just don't get it. We only have like three roads! How can they all need work done on them every sunny day of every year? Hmmm.

3. I was watching Dr. Oz this morning while putting on my makeup because our cable company couldn't get its contracting act together at the beginning of the year, and I no longer get "Live with Kelly." This makes me sad because, while Dr. Oz can manage to fill an hour every day telling you THE most important five changes you can make to your diet (and not the same ones he told you yesterday), he's just not that funny and entertaining. And if there's anything I require in the morning, and in life in general to be honest, it's that someone at least amuse and entertain me. Sooooo, this morning Dr. Oz made this statement: "Blood Pressure is the number one cause of aging in America."
What?
I suppose that's technically true, because if I had no blood pressure, I would die and therefore not continue to age. However, the segment was on the dangers of high blood pressure, so I really don't think that's what he meant. And so I say simply . . . hmmm?

4. "That person really knows how to pray!" I've heard this countless times during my time in the pentecostal world. I just don't quite get what it means. It appears to have a correlation to the pray-er's volume, intensity, and number of times he/she can say "My God" during the prayer. I honestly don't mean this one to be disrespectful or sacrilegious (sacre bleu!), but I don't get it. And so I say again . . . Hmmm.

There are many, many more, but I feel the need for sleep. Unlike my husband who complains every morning that he is exhausted but refuses to go to bed before midnight. Hmmm.

Randomness

My kids have been taking a few dollars to school lately to buy rubber wristbands with the school slogan on them. Ethan bought a few last week, and unbeknownst to me, took another $10 to school today and purchased TEN more. When he told me about it this afternoon, I was a little perturbed at him. "Ethan," I scolded, "Spending one or two dollars on those is okay, but you may NOT take ten dollars to school to buy junk without my permission . . . do you understand?" "Yes, but, mom, the money goes to help kids with cancer." Oh.

Josh came tearing into my room last night right after he got in bed, hollering that something in his bed had bitten him. Sure enough, I could see a small red dot with a bite mark in the center. After only two or three minutes, the redness had spread to the diameter of a golf, and the whole thing was very swollen. I searched his bed but couldn't find the culprit, so being the sensible mom that I am, I promptly sent everyone out of the room lest the vicious creature strike again. Ethan slept in Lauren's room, and Josh slept in ours. And I closed the door to the boys' room so, you know, it wouldn't wander into any other beds. The bright side is the boys have fresh clean linens on their beds today.

Sometimes I think Matt Lauer wears glasses just to look smart. I don't know why I suspect he doesn't really need them; I just do.

I loved the Hunger Games books and highly recommend reading them before seeing the movie. It leaves out soooo much. (This snippet brought to you by the fact that I just hear Ryan Seacrest say to the American Idol contestants, "May the odds be ever in your favor." Seriously.)

The boys are downstairs wrestling with David as I'm typing this, and about a minute ago my phone rang. It was Joshua screaming and laughing into the phone, "Momma, come save me . . . Daddy's got us!!" Sometimes I regret the day that kid learned my cell number.

I do stupid stuff all the time. Yesterday was no exception. I left the house to drop David's car off at the shop, and I was a couple blocks from home when I realized I was driving mine.

I am on a crunchy peanut butter and jelly sandwich kick. I don't know why anyone would eat creamy peanut butter when they could have crunchy. It makes no sense.

Speaking of things to eat, I make these smoothies several times a week. The kids and I love them. This morning I poured the leftover (which existed only because I made mine after the kids were gone to school) into popsicle molds. The kids loved them as popsicles tonight! Here's what I use:





A little orange juice, a little carrot juice, a banana, some frozen pineapple (I drain a can and freeze the pieces), frozen peaches, frozen strawberries, a kiwi, and some spinach. Delicious.

There was no real need for the photos above. I just thought I'd share them because I apparently fancy myself a chef. Or a food photographer. Because that last picture looks so appetizing, right?

My moms coming to visit soon! And bringing two of my nieces! I haven't seen my mom since Christmas, so I'm very excited. I just wish my dad loved me enough to come visit me, too.

(In case you don't know my dad, that last sentence was not sincere. He loves me. I guess it's just that he doesn't want to see his grandkids or something.)

For the record, this is how happy his granddaughter would be to see him:

Seven Quick Takes Friday

Quick Takes, though I still don't have the little linky picture on my laptop, and I'm still too lazy to obtain it right now:

1.

I do not envy full-time working mothers. I worked until 6:00 pm the past two nights, and I feel like the whole darn system is crashing down around me. (Which is pretty funny if you know me, because the "system" is rather precarious as it is.) But now . . . the laundry! The dishes! The homework! Oh my!

Today's late work day was not planned. I ordinarily leave work a few minutes before 3:00 so I can be home when the kids' bus gets here. Today, however, I got hired at 2:30 - just as I was about to leave - to represent someone at a 9 am hearing tomorrow. Obviously, I needed to stay and do some preparation, and since I couldn't find a last minute sitter easily, I said to David on a whim, "Wanna go home early today?" He never leaves work that early and usually has appointments until late afternoon. But to my surprise and delight, he said sure! Sometimes it's really nice to be law partners with one's spouse.

2.

As he was leaving, we had the following conversation:

Me: Feel free to run to the grocery store and make some dinner while you're at it.
David: Sure, I'll put that on my to-do list. It will be somewhere between right now and hell freezing over.
Me: No, I'm pretty sure hell will freeze over first.

**I should note that my husband is not the jerk that this conversation may imply. He's wonderful. He just can't cook. He really can't cook.

3.

Speaking of David and work, he has been putting together some short videos for our firm's website. To that end, he has turned our office workroom into a film studio complete with six giant photography lights, a big white backdrop, a microphone system, and a tripod. (If you know David, you know he never does anything halfway.)

His goal is to create dozens of 2 minute videos where he or I talk about different legal topics to help drive traffic to our website. He has made quite a few already, but I have heretofore insisted that I would not appear on camera until I shed this last pesky pound or forty. He finally talked me into doing one last week. BIG MISTAKE. (Pun intended) That whole "camera adds 10 pounds" thing? It's a total lie. It doesn't add; it multiplies!

4.

In his research on ways to increase business, he came across the suggestion of having a firm newsletter. Apparently, the ideal law firm newsletter contains only 20% law related information; the rest is information that may be of interest or entertainment to anyone reading the newsletter, whether they have a legal need or not.

This sparked what I thought was a brilliant idea. Like many ideas I've had in our dozen years together, though, its brilliance was not unanimously agreed upon. So, I ask you: would you love to read a humor column in your law firm's monthly newsletter?

I've always wanted to write a humor column. Well, at least since I had the idea a few days ago. But since then, I've always wanted to.

I think it would be the perfect thing to keep people looking forward to our newsletter and to get them to actually read it instead of just throwing it in the trash. Of course, I suppose there is the slight possibility that some people might not want their attorney to be a stand-up comic. (Which is exactly why I would write it sitting down.)

5.

The kids have no school tomorrow because it was built into the calendar as a make-up snow day. Since we have had zero, count 'em, zero, snow days this year, they just get the day off. They will be off again in two weeks as well unless we have a freak snowstorm between now and then. I find these days-off-for-no-real-reason helpful. I have been entertaining frequent thoughts of homeschooling lately, but whenever my kids have the day off from school, it works wonders toward shaking me back to my senses.

6.

We are finally going to do Christmas with the in-laws in a few days. My father-in-law had surgery back in October and has been unable to travel since then. We visited them in October and November but spent Christmas in Georgia and have not been able to make it down to see them until now. I feel terrible that it is March, and we have not managed to travel the four hours to do Christmas with them yet, but on the other hand . . . Christmas in March . . . yay! Right?

7.

Back before Christmas my mother-in-law was trying to figure out what to get the kids for Christmas. I made a few suggestions, and we decided it would be easiest for me to order a couple specific items myself and just have her reimburse me. Well, I have had these items "hidden" in the laundry room for almost three months now. Really, my laundry room is the perfect place to hide a gift: No one besides me puts it to use, there is always plenty of dirty laundry to hide things behind, and if by some miraculous chance I go to the bottom of the dirty laundry baskets, there's still the Mt. Everest of socks to block a person's view.

Unfortunately, Joshua came across his gift about a month ago when he was looking for socks. He guessed that it was for him since it was something he had specifically asked for, but he was seriously disappointed that he had found it so it will no longer be a surprise when he opens it someday. I have since moved it to three different locations so he won't keep seeing it (he says he's trying to forget what it is), but he keeps finding it again! A couple of weeks ago, he said, "Mom you're the worst present hider in the history of the world."


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Consequences

I put them to bed twenty minutes ago. Still their voices carry down the hall to my bedroom. Not soft whispering-in-the-night voices. Angry, arguing voices.

"What's going on?" I yell from my just-got-comfortable spot on my bed. Apparently, Ethan has moved something and it's not right and I "have to come" see what it is. I gather that it involves a nightlight, and I bellow back that I don't want to hear anything else about it. I issue a warning that they are to close their eyes and go to sleep right now and that if I hear their voices again before morning, they will be on screen restriction tomorrow.

This is an enormous threat. Joshua has been working hard for quite some time to earn a Lord of the Rings wii game that he wants desperately. It costs $18.00, and I told him if he earned $10.00, I would pay the rest. (He has more money than that, but he can't bear to part with money he already possesses, so he asked if he could just work for credit toward the game instead of cash.) He finally finished earning his portion on Monday, so late Monday night I ordered the game. Which means it will arrive tomorrow.

He checked the mailbox first thing when he got home from school today justincase it came early. While home sick yesterday, he scoured youtube (under my supervision) for trailers of the game. Earlier tonight, he lamented that he could not will away the hours between waking and getting home from school tomorrow to obtain his new game.

Screen restriction tomorrow is no small threat.

Five minutes go by. I hear a thumping. A banging. I hope it's the cat, but as the noise persists and grows louder, I have to admit that it is coming from my sons' room. Again: "What's going on?" The response involves something about somebody sticking his tongue out and somebody kicking somebody's bed and somebody throwing a pillow at somebody. I am so stupefied by the fact that this is taking place after my warning that I don't pay very close attention to the details.

Instead of responding to the allegations, I issue a simple sentence: Screen restriction tomorrow.

A moment of silence. Then a gasp, a gulp, a sob. The consequence is real.

No, mom, please! The tears flow in earnest as I call him to my room for a discussion.

Were you warned? Yes.
Did you stick out your tongue? Yes.
Why? Because I was mad at Ethan for moving the nightlight.
Was this after I had warned you what would happen? Yes.
But you chose to start a fight instead of closing your eyes and being quiet? Yes.

What is it that makes us think we will be exempt from the consequences we know will stem from our actions? I can't point the finger at my 9 year-old without inculpating myself as well.

I know if I eat junk food I will gain weight.
I know if I procrastinate getting important things done, I will be stressed and become sick.
I know if I am unkind to my husband, my marriage will suffer.
I know that by the measure which I judge others, I will also be judged.

It's not like I haven't been warned. But, in my heart of hearts, I am just like Josh. When faced with the choice between believing that the consequence will follow or giving in to my fleshly desires and hoping I will somehow avert the foretold ending, I usually give in.

I explain to Josh that, as important as his wii game is to him, it means absolutely nothing to me compared to his obedience. That game, I say, is as important to me as a speck of dust compared to his character.

And, as I have come to expect after almost a decade of parenting, I hear God's voice echoing my own. He cares so much more about my character than about my comfort. When will I believe Him?

Ash Wednesday Thoughts - Repent and Believe in the Gospel

"Repent and believe in the Gospel."

These are the words the priest uttered as he placed the ashes on my forehead during mass this morning. ** He alternated between those words and "Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return" as he marked the cross on the foreheads of myself and my fellow worshipers.

Both statements are powerful reminders, but my heart has stayed fixed today on the words I received: Repent and believe in the Gospel.

Repent. Why? Because we are hopeless, helpless beings. We know the right thing, and we choose the wrong. As Paul said, we do what we don't want to do, and what we want to do, we don't do. If we say we have not sinned, we deceive ourselves. We must acknowledge our state of absolute inadequacy and our immeasurable need for redemption. We must repent.

Believe. What a deceptively simple word this is. Believing is defined as "having confidence in the truth, the existence, or the reliability of something, although without absolute proof that one is right in doing so." That is no easy task. Though God has surrounded us with evidence of Himself, His love, and the truth of His lordship, we are also bombarded with doubts and lies. It is no simple thing to stand firm in a belief when what we see, hear, and often feel, tells us we are wrong to do so. But believe we must.

In the Gospel. Believing is important, but what we believe in is paramount. Most people will tell you they believe in God. Or a Higher Being. That is not the Gospel. The Gospel is our only hope. It is Christ's atonement. We can believe in a god of our own making, but ultimately, the object of our belief determines the result, not the belief itself. As Bill D. always said, you can believe that a pond is frozen solid or not. It doesn't really matter how strongly you believe it is frozen; if it's not, you will fall through. Conversely, even if you don't really believe it will hold you, if it it frozen, it will. We must believe in the right thing.

The Gospel: Christ crucified. Christ resurrected. People redeemed.

Let us beginning this season of Lent, the remembrance of our Savior's sacrifice, with one goal always in mind. Repent. And believe. In the Gospel.

**No I have not become a Catholic. I do, however, attend Mass on most holy days, because the church I attend does not observe many of them nor does it follow a liturgical calendar. I personally find that my spirit is fed through the observation of liturgical seasons, so I have made them part of my journey.

Doing Hard Things

(This post was originally published in December, 2009. I'm recycling it because it seems to be a lesson God's still teaching me.)
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Last year I came across a book entitled, Do Hard Things. I didn't read it, but I liked the title.

What a simple idea.

At the time I was preparing to do something I had dreaded for years: pack up my family and leave my motherland for the frozen tundra. Such an endeavor definitely seemed worthy of "hard things" status. In fact, maybe it was one of the hardest things anyone had ever done. I was pretty sure I should have been awarded some kind of "hard things" medal of honor.

I've realized recently, though, that it's not the grand, momentous things in life that are truly hard. Sure, it's difficult to move to a faraway land or, I imagine, to risk one's life as a missionary or to take a leap of faith in taking a new job or embarking on a new, scary endeavor.

But, you know what's harder?

Forgiving someone who's hurt you.

Humbly submitting to your spouse.

Loving unconditionally.

They're not gradiose or attention-grabbing. There's nothing sexy about the packaging of these challenges, so it's not likely that they'll garner you any applause or pats on the back. At least not by men.

Nevertheless, God honors them and counts them among the greatest acts to which a person can attain.

I'm struggling with a couple of these things right now. There's a person in my life whom I've felt hurt by and am pretty angry at, and I would like to just wallow in my self-pity, wrap up in my hurt feelings, and snuggle up to my righteous indignation. I am right, after all.

Unfortunately, God doesn't seem to care.

"But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you." (Mat. 5:44)

Um, sorry, God, that's a verse I like to apply to big things like Muslim/Christian relations. Or maybe even to how Christians are discriminated against by the government . . . but not to my friend who's hurt me.

And, so my conversation with God goes something like this:

"Pray for her."
"But, she hurt me and hasn't apologized.
"Reach out to her."
"But, SHE is wrong and I am right."
"But, I tell you . . . love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you." (Luke 6:2-28)
"I don't want to. It's hard."

Do hard things. Why doesn't anyone ever mention that it's harder to pray for someone who's hurt you than it is to give an extra tithe or to spend a summer doing mission work?

Love one another. Now that's hard.

The great thing about Pinterest on a Saturday afternoon

Is that now when my kids say they don't have anything to do, I have a solution.

Just get some muffin pans, milk, and food coloring.

Create a rainbow of colors.

Stir carefully with toothpicks

And paint some marshmallows.

If you're a girl, you might choose light purple

A boy may choose army green

His brother may abandon the paintbrush altogether and opt to dunk

At any rate, a good time will be had by all.

7 Quick Takes Friday

1. Wow . . . long time since I did quick takes! I haven't done them since I got this laptop, so I don't have the little button logo saved on here. And I'm too lazy to fix that at the moment. So, without all the fancy fixins, here are some brief and mostly insignificant snippets of my life these days.

2. The boys are wrestling. Ethan likes it; Josh hates it. I'm with Josh. They've been practicing since before Christmas, so David decided we should take advantage of a novice tournament about 1/2 hr away last weekend. (Many of them are much farther.) Ugh. Misery. I truly hate wrestling. I hate the spandex singlets. I hate the siting for hours waiting for your match. I hate the crowded gym and the noise and the chaos. I really hate seeing my 7 year-old's face pressed into a mat as he struggles to overcome his opponent. I hate everything about it. Unfortunately, David loves it. Sometimes it's inconvenient not to have everything my way. How's that for profound?

3. So I was ordering flowers for my niece's birthday the other day, and I couldn't remember my address. I said 315 P__ Ave, and as I was saying it I thought it didn't sound right, but I couldn't think of anything else. While I was on the phone I went in the kitchen and dug out a piece of mail with my address on it, and sure enough, it's 415 P___ Ave. In my defense, I've only lived at this address for almost 3 years.

4. Still sick. Yuck. I keep thinking of going to the dr for an antibiotic, but I just have a bad cold. I've had it since Monday, and it's no better, but my face doesn't hurt when I tap it, so I'm sure I don't have a sinus infection. (That's me putting my imaginary medical degree to work.) My ears don't hurt, etc. I fear they would just send me home the same way I came. So I wait. And suffer. Without complaint of course. Clearly, I'm one to suffer in silence.

5. So my cat has decided that it wants to pee on our bed (twice since Christmas) and our LEATHER SOFA! Why? Why? I ask you! He has a litter box, and, well, he's a cat. David's been saying the couch smells like pee, but I haven't been able to smell all week, so I could neither confirm nor deny. Yesterday, however, I caught the cat red handed. Or yellow weinered. Or something. He was scraping around with his paw like he was trying to bury the pee . . . on the leather sofa. He has no claws, so scratching is not a problem, but really, what does he think he is accomplishing?! I'm baffled and annoyed. Baffloyed.

6. I am coaching the local high school mock trial team for the third year. I love it. However, out of 12 team members, only 2 are returning. (Everyone else graduated on me!) The first round of competition is on Feb 16, and we are sooooooooo far from ready. I have little hope that we will advance this year but great hope that after they get some experience under their collective belts, we will do better next year. Let's hope none of them reads this and learns that I have no confidence in them this year!

7. As much as I would love to stay here on my bed with my furry blanket, hot tea, and laptop, I must go. Work awaits. Hope you all have a great weekend and head over to Conversion Diary for more quick takes. You'll be glad you did.