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Camping in the summer with Meme and Grandad was a big part of my childhood. They'd take me and my older brother and sister David and Vicki and my cousins Shawn and Angela to places as far as Colorado. It seemed rational to me at the time, but looking back it seems pretty phenomenal. I was the youngest and still had my baby teeth on these trips. My brother was the oldest; a preteen. How did five squirmy kids and two adults fit in a small camper trailer? We made cookies and Kool-aid and my grandparents helped us do our own devotions at our campsite. A couple of times we invited the neighbors. Those trips are sweet in my memory. 

I've had four adult camping trips that were also memorable, though not for the same reasons.

The first was with Jason and I along with my mom and dad's Russian exchange student, Taya (she's kind of like my sister).  It started out beautiful with us camped outside on a hill with a storm rolling in. We were able to watch a show of lightning miles away. That was the last of the night's beauty. I woke up to Jason beating wildly about his legs. He said something had crawled on him and had hit at it until he couldn't feel crawling anymore. He abruptly went back to sleep. I did not. The next morning we found an expired tarantula curled up beside his sleeping bag. There's a picture of it somewhere. Curled up, that monster was still the size of Jason's hand. I kid you not.

That should have been enough, but we took our youth group camping too. Jason lost some arm hair on that trip showing the kids that flour is combustible using the campfire he'd made. Singed hair smells bad.

We took another camping trip years later with my sister and her family. We'd found a great place in central Texas that was historically connected to Quannah Parker. That camping excursion only lasted hours; enough time to get our tents up only to be swallowed up by a torrential storm. The storm was short-lived but the anger of an army of ants thereafter was not. They thought to overtake us, but we surrendered and went back home.

Dinosaur Park in Glen Rose was the last camping trip we've taken. I was eight and a half months pregnant with Rylie when we camped at Dinosaur Park. We had a trailer, but for some reason our suitcases and ice chests and such were in the back of our truck. The rain once again met us there. Our camping started out with our furiously transferring suitcases and lawn chairs into the trailer. I spent the first night with contractions. That was an uncomfortable trip.

Camping is a time when stories are told, maybe around a fire or in our case,  a dry spot out of the rain. Camping is also a place where stories are made. But truthfully most camping trips aren't without their miseries. Camping trips usually include mosquitoes and cramped living quarters; uncomfortable temperatures and at some point complaining.

Yesterday we attended The Tabernacle Experience at our church. Check my Facebook for a short interview Jason did about it. The tour was powerful and moving. I couldn't begin to share with you what the experience was like but thoughts have been rolling around in my head since our going.

The tour takes you back to when the Israelites were camped out in the desert after their deliverance from slavery in Egypt. Our church has on loan, a replica of the tabernacle that the people of Israel carried around with them which they would set up in their camp. Appropriately, our experience in the tabernacle camp yesterday wasn't without rain. The weather was slightly miserable. I thought about the people of Israel and what we read in scripture about their attitudes much of the time they wandered.

 

In the desert the whole community grumbled...  (v. 2)
"If only we had died at the LORD'S hand in the land of Egypt, when we sat by pots of meat and ate all the bread we wanted. Instead you brought us into this wilderness to make this whole assembly die of hunger!" Exodus 16:3

I remembered a phrase used in the leaflet given to us prior to the tour yesterday.

Tabernacle means "dwelling".  The idea behind it was that God would have His own tent among their tents.

As I stood on soggy ground yesterday I was struck with a stronger than before realization that Holy God pitched his tent amongst theirs. And as imperfect as I am, He has made his dwelling in me; sinful, grumbling me.

The Spirit of God, who raised Jesus from the dead, lives in you.  And just as God raised Christ Jesus from the dead, he will give life to your mortal bodies by this same Spirit living within you. Romans 8:11

To think that he dwells in a heart like mine....

If you get a chance to head to First Baptist in Nederland by the fifteenth, this coming Sunday, go. It's quite the experience.

And Meme and Grandad, if you get a chance to read this, know that I better appreciate the effort and love it took to go camping with a bunch of kids who wouldn't understand what you were doing for them........until now.

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There's a ninety percent chance it will rain today. I watched the forecast on the news this morning as I was packing three lunches for school. In my Monday morning mood I thought to myself that there was a better chance of rain today than all three of my children remembering their lunches. We're a forgetful bunch. Last Thursday one remembered their lunch, one forgot their lunch and one somehow got off with two drinks but missing her snack. This morning one "lost" her lunch. How do you misplace your lunch?

I scampered upstairs to check the bathroom (gross thought). Not there.  I was checking the next possible spot grumbling about

wishing we could have one morning

where we ALL have our stuff when she yelled, "I found it.  It fell behind the shoe basket."

It's not just mornings that I'm reminded of our inability to "get it right".

I am a diligent overseer of grades. I frequently go online to check how the kids are doing. I've also signed up to receive a notification any time the kids make anything below an eighty. At least one kid scores below an eighty on something every week.  Every Friday like clockwork I get an email from the address "noreply@nederland.k12.tx.us". But I tell you, I always have a reply.

Could we just have one Friday without one of these emails?

One Friday!

Jason suggested this past weekend I change the notification setting to a lower grade or that I discontinue the notification. ....The nerve of that guy.... Why would I want make our Friday afternoons more pleasant when I can have a guaranteed reason to shake my head at this "less than eighty nonsense"?  I think I may listen to him.

Sometimes I'm forgetful. 

I'm forgetful of my own blunders. I'm forgetful of my own forgetfulness. I've only recently come to the place of knowing I have to put my keys in the same basket on the counter or else they will be lost. I'm constantly looking for the one spatula I have. I lose paperwork. Worst, I lose my cool.

I'm also forgetful of how quickly time passes. The duties and demands of motherhood are unending.  As moms we spend so much time working to make things right, that we often neglect to realize how right things are. In the Burden house, the kids are all still home. The number of those days is getting fewer.

In five months we'll be moving our oldest into his college dorm. Jason and I attended a high school meeting two weeks ago for Hallie. I wasn't prepared to see "Class of 2019" on the projector screen. The kid was a preteen thirteen months ago. The baby is months away from double digits.

In ten years I won't have lunches to pack anymore. I more than likely won't have foreheads to kiss every morning.

I wonder if I'll be wishing we could have "just one morning". Maybe I'll be asking for another Friday with the kids all home.

It was just a few years ago that I grumbled about diaper changing. Now I miss grabbing those bare feet, squeezing pink baby toes while they were close to me.

They're a forgetful bunch, those kids. We're a forgetful bunch, us moms. Neither us or the kids get it right all the time. But today lets know where our heart should be. Mine is in a place called home; a sometimes messy spot where things are often missing

......but never should be love and gratitude for a gift as precious as our family.

Today put your heart on pause; maybe it will tick a little more slowly.   Forgotten lunches and crummy quiz grades for me,  or maybe dirty diapers and toddler tantrums for you, mean that our children are still children. Instead of asking for one day where we get it right, surely we know that today is right. God has given us today with them. Today is good.

We've been notified.

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See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God. 1 John 3:1

Yesterday afternoon I stood in my dirty kitchen with leftover fried eggs and sausage on a platter in front of me. I remembered an invitation I'd gotten the night before to go to the movies with a couple of gals. I'd turned it down earlier in the afternoon knowing I should go. Rylie's music class project, coffee cans turned tom-tom drums were complete besides the red and blue paint job that could dry on its own. Most of my reasons for not going had been crossed off the list. I stood before a left-out carton of strawberries when Michelle texted to make sure I couldn't go. Impulsively I asked her to pick me up. The kitchen would wait.

(null)

We caught the last night of a three day viewing of a documentary called The Drop Box. As I found seats, I adjusted my fountain drink in its holder and began to assemble the nachos in my lap; happy with my jalapeños. I was ready to be filled; anxious to be entertained. Minutes in, my eyes fixed themselves on necessary English subtitles. The movie introduces Lee, a pastor from South Korea who built a box into a wall with his laundry room on one side and the outside on the other. The box is a place of rescue for the growing number of abandoned babies in South Korea.

I've shared the YouTube trailer on my Facebook page.

I laughed at the familiar way Pastor Lee and his wife Chun-ha teased one another as they share the story of their beginning together. I made a note to look up several of the songs in the film. The music was beautiful. As one would expect, the film was full of babies and sweet little ones playing in their cramped living space. But entertained isn't the word I'd choose to describe the experience. I was filled; not by purchased movie snacks, but with awe at this Christ follower.

Early in the film I felt my heart had been hijacked. I was forced to face the cold reality of not only what happens to babies in South Korea but around the world.

Writing about the babies is hard. Many of those abandoned are handicapped; some severely. These babies are given up because they prove to be too heavy a burden both financially and emotionally. Most of Pastor Lee's babies have physical deformities. Were we to see them in public, we might find ourselves looking away, not sure how to react, not wanting to stare.

But in this film you're forced to watch them; to know they exist. And through the eyes of Pastor Lee and his wife you learn not to pity them. You see each one for the blessing he is.

In true gracious fashion, Pastor Lee shares his love even for the women who give their babies up. He reads heart-wrenching letters of girls who are desperate and in great sorrow regarding their decision.

You watch Lee's 26 year old biological son, Eun-man, struggle to smile or blink his eyes as he is confined to bed for the third decade due to his cerebral palsy. At the beginning of the film you watch as Lee handles a tube that is inserted in his son's neck. A raw image, you wonder why they had to show that part. By the end of the film you wish you could jump onscreen and plant a kiss on the son, Eun-man's forehead. Eun-man's life is beautiful. Strangely that's made visible as you witness his pain.

His daddy, Pastor Lee became known for his undying love in the hospital where Eun-man resided for fourteen years. Having lost their home due to mounting medical bills, Lee and his family lived in a waiting room at the hospital. He was known there as the father with an unrelenting love for the "boy on his back". Not only was his love for Eun-man his son apparent, but Lee preached and sang songs to all he encountered. It was at the hospital that Lee was first asked to adopt an ailing child. He agreed.

Since that time Lee and his wife have saved the lives of more than 500 babies. They have raised over three dozen of them. Lee is in poor health being sleep deprived and having diabetes. He and his wife carry a heavy burden. This story is nowhere near a happy ending.

But it's a story of hope.

It's a story that begs to be heard; not because any of us can fix this ill. This story belongs to each of us. It's finds us where we are and calls us to rise up. What can we do?

We can pray. Each of us can commit to pray for Pastor Lee and "his family". We can pray for his health. We can pray for his ministry; that he receives support. We can pray that those who God is calling to come alongside him would answer that call.

We can pray that more resources would eventually be provided to mamas who feel the only option they have is to abandon their baby. We can pray that the message of Jesus gets out through these testimonies God has written.

We can give to Pastor Lee's ministry. Check out the website. thedropboxfilm.com

You can get involved locally. Buckners and other organizations are looking for volunteers. Fostering and adopting is an option. Find a local family in need of encouragement. Maybe you know of a family that fosters children who would be uplifted by a meal or a night out. If you know of a family struggling with the demands of caring for a child with disabilities, offer your support.

The film ended with a short testimony from the director of the film. Brian Ivie set about to use his talents to make the film that would attract attention. In brutal honesty he shares that his goal was to make a name for himself. But that's the thing about Jesus. His is the name above all names.

And there is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved." Acts 4:12

In Ivie's experience he came to realize what he and these adopted children have in common; something you and I have in common too. We are all in need of a holy father. We have a father who loves us unceasingly even when we are able to fully understand that love. He takes our filth and brokenness unto himself. He clothes us and makes us his own.

God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure. Ephesians 1:5

If we could wake up every day living in light of that kind of love, we'd set the world on fire.

What are we waiting for?

The Drop Box has a Facebook page check it out. If you have any questions about this film or you'd like this film to be made a into a DVD let the powers that be know. Here's their email address.

filmquestions@fotf.org

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I walked out the front door this morning and wanted to stop in my tracks. I was suddenly inclined to cease my doing and my going and maybe even my being, right there on my sidewalk. I wanted to stretch my arms out to the left and the right like that Timothy Green kid, soaking up the sun that peeks today between gray dots of clouds in the sky.

I need the sun.

It's times like now when I've hardly seen it's warm face that I miss it so. I find myself wishing to be a bird or bear so I could migrate or hibernate and just avoid the cold.

winter

The lack of sun in January and February has depressed my mood. The forecast of more winter has my soul groaning. I know, "You'll be whining in the July heat ," you say. I won't. Well, maybe I'll complain a little by midsummer. My upper lip will be beaded with what I've come to call a SETX sweat-stache. That will be after days and days of sun and heat. That will be when the sun has come out of hiding and it's face becomes so familiar that I forget to appreciate its warm rays.

There might be the one thing that makes winter bearable. The gray and the cold makes the uncloudy days seem brilliant; the rain, the sun so fine.

Maybe I need winter too.

If sun is the reality of all things bright and beautiful, then surely the dark days are where hope is made.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul-and sings the tunes without the words-and never stops at all. -Emily Dickinson

Tomorrow I've been told the cold will come back to pay a visit. It's chill will attempt to invade not only the uncovered parts of my skin, but my soul. But I'll be that bird. Not flown away to a warmer land, but singing a hope tune.

And today, when the sun is to be found, I'll be a glow stick positioning myself to take in all the light and warmth I know how. I'll carry the sun within me into the cold of tomorrow. I'll be wrapped in warm feathers; thoughts of sunny days past and bright days to come.

I'll remember that the sun, wouldn't be fully known as the sun without the clouds.

And I'll be thankful for the sun

and for the clouds and cold too.

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To bring up a child in the way he should go-travel that way yourself. -Josh Billings

I probably shouldn't be writing about this on a Monday morning. The kids just left for school and there's a shower curtain and rod in a big jumbled mess on the bathroom floor that nobody knew was there. The girls were shrieking in frustration this morning indicating that the brother who has felt too bad to antagonize them is returning to good health and good pranks. Someone's eyeglasses are lost again. Their last known whereabouts is Hico (in Central Texas) at the visitation for Jason's grandmother who passed away last week. We have a picture to confirm this lasting sighting of the glasses. So. The lost eyeglasses are somewhere within a three-hundred and fifty mile radius. Since we usually have a great deal of difficulty finding them when they're lost in the house, this should be fun.

kids1

I've been thinking a few days about a phrase we hear every now and then.

"You have good kids."

I've had a few people say this to me through the years.  The opposite has been thought as well, but we know most people won't say your kids are bad until they know you're out of earshot.

When I've been told my kids are good, my response is varied.

  1.  I say something like "You should have seen them this morning"  countering the compliment with information that they're typical children with typical behavior that's not always good.
  2. Very rarely, do I say thank you. Here are the reasons.

Saying thank you feels like I'm taking credit for such goodness.  I am in a constant state of awareness of how difficult parenting can be.  I know I make mistakes.  And I make mistakes that I don't even know I make. It's a tough gig. Not to say that parenting is without reward and joy; parenting is full of both. But, this parenting path is one I walk blindly on; depending completely on God's grace to see me and my children through. Neither my parent's path or my neighbor's is just like mine.

Hearing from someone that my kids "are good" feels like too flat a description.  It doesn't quite describe their complicated nature which is at times opposed to good. My kids do good things like the one who spent her own money at the bookfair to buy an overpriced cat poster for her sister when I know she would very much like the cat poster for herself.  Or like the brother who rescued a lost dog this past weekend and then found the owners returning the dog to them.  I'm reminded of a time or two the dishwasher was unloaded without my asking.  These kindnesses are counterbalanced with episodes of fighting over things like the DS game charger and chores left undone. My kids do good things.  They misbehave too.

Saying thank you scares me frankly. In my own experience, the moment I brag on my kids, they go and ruin it.  I remark how nice they're being to each other only to hear them fight over feeding the dogs.  I listen to one of them tell the life story of Winston Churchill and swell with pride over their depth of knowledge only to check their grades online hours later to find a zero and a two terrible test grades.  Saying, even thinking that my children are doing good seems to have a jinxing effect.  How much more, if I accept a compliment suggesting that they're GOOD kids.

As parents, I think we all appreciate that person who takes notice of our family.  We're thankful for a kind word saying that we, or our kids, or both are doing a good job.  We're likewise thankful for people who encourage even though "good" is not how they see our kids present behavior (or our attempt to manage it). Our world is made brighter by kind words with encouraging intentions.

We also know as parents, that there are inevitably times that our parenting is questioned.  Our kids cop an attitude in public or act like hooligans in a restaurant.  Maybe they forget what we taught them about responding to an adult with maam and sir. We can be sure that our kid's name may go home with another kid, mentioned in a story that's anything but good.  Maybe our kid will act bullyish at one time or another, even if they have the kindest of hearts.  They'll probably be rude, deal with jealousy and say things that aren't true. Beyond bad behavior, even the hardest praying, most loving parents may find themselves and their children in a dark season where trouble seems to never leave. Regardless of our kids' behavior, misbehavior, or the severity thereof; all parents find themselves in the same boat.

We believe we are doing the best we know how.

There are times we are proud, and times we are dog-tired and our efforts seem fruitless.

We have room to improve and room to rely on God more than we already are.

We want people to love our children without regard to their behavior.

More worth mentioning than any of these things is the truth that we have a God who is good, loves our children unconditionally and a God whose behavior doesn't change.

We have a Father who promises:

His grace is sufficient for the parent who feels they're not getting it right and whose children aren't following their instructions.

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness. 2 Corinthians 12:9

He will guide us and He will guide our children.

I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my loving eye on you. Psalm 32:8

We ought to be diligent to pray for each other as parents.  Let's pray for each other's children, keeping at the front of our mind that righteousness is only found in God. Pray that our encouragement to others would be rooted in truth and love.

Kids are a precious gift, wrapped in mystery, given by a good Father who leads us all along.

Email your thoughts, your wisdom or a request for prayer.

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Jason sent me a text meant to provoke jealousy this past Wednesday. The text came alongside a picture of a bottled coke and a delicious-looking plate of assorted tacos. Though envious he was eating without me, I remembered why I love that man.....and tacos.

He brought me back today. Salsitas is an authentic Mexican food joint at 3297 College St. in Beaumont.

For those of you seeking the real deal, instead of describing my plate with sense-inducing language, I'm sharing ten ways I knew this place was legit.

1. A telenovela (Mexican soap opera) with a scorned woman was on the tube.

2. You can count on fresh lime wedges and homemade tortillas coming with your meal.

3. Mexican blankets pair as wall decoration and curtains.

4. There was something creepy on the menu that I wouldn't eat, suggesting that this place serves cuisine beyond the amateur list of nachos and burritos.

5. They serve six kinds of tacos including pastor and azada. (Burger King isn't the only place that lets you have it your way).

6. We had to use part of napkins to blow our runny noses caused by truly hot salsa.

7. You can enjoy your meal with an Orange Fanta or Coke in one of those tall, thick glass bottles.

8. There's a taco truck outside with Christmas lights. I can't explain, but that feels authentic.

9. You get more cilantro with your dish than you do lettuce (the non-tasty filler).

10. The menu is in Spanish and you find yourself making sure you know what a ceviche tostada is. "That is fish, right?"

 

Here's Jason's foodie review to go right along with my ten reasons:

I had a lunch plate of Chile Verdes on Wednesday. This stuff was good. They have all the food stuff made up and on a steam table so you can see what's fresh and what's not. Since I was there around 11:30 both times this week, everything was fresh. It was raining Wednesday so there weren't any other patrons coming through the door, but the drive through line was steady.

The Chile Verdes was tasty, they were spicy and they were filling. That's what I'm looking for in a lunch plate. I also ordered a Taco Azada. I don't even know what that is. It's some king of delicious beef thing. Don't ask too many questions. Just enjoy.


Since it's Friday, I took Kristi back with me so we could have a lunchtime date. I was just a little disappointed. Instead of ESPN Desportes playing on three TVs and turned up loud enough to drown out a freight train, they had, as Kristi alluded to above, some telenovela thing going. It was like watching Days of Our Lives, but in Spanish. It didn't take away from the ambiance. I was just sad I didn't get to hear the announcer of the soccer game yell "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLLLLL!"

Anyway, I figured since the one taco I ate on Wednesday was good, why not order 4 more. I did two Azada, one Barbacoa, and one Carnitas. That's Spanish for Tasty Beef, Delicious Meat, and Heavenly Pork.


These Tacos are simple and savory. Load them up with lime juice and hot sauce and you have the makings for a face full of flavor. I'm still sweating from the red sauce. Go with the green for a milder kick, but you will still be kicked!

Kristi went out on a limb with the Cameron Tostado. When I see and old food truck, my mind doesn't immediately say, "I wonder what their seafood tastes like?" No, far from it. But she was bold today. And this was one of those days where boldness paid off!


This was sheer goodness on a crunchy shell. She let me have a bite, and when I wanted to go in for a second bite, it was already gone. Add this to your "To Get" list if you get the chance to dine-in. If you're ordering out, it might get a little messy when you try to sneak a bite on the way home. It's piled high with Pico, Shrimp, and Avocado.

She also snagged a Chicken Taco. That was about the only English thing on their menu, but it was served up with full Mexican flavor.


I don't know why we love to take pictures of our food so much. I love taking pictures of Kristi taking pictures of her food.


On the way out, Kristi took a shot of this:


I don't know what it is. I'm sad that I didn't order it. This is my reason for going back sometime in the future.

If you're in Beaumont, anywhere near 3297 College St., not far from Baptist Hospital, stop by. You'll fill your belly without emptying your pocketbook.

 

If you've enjoyed this, let us know about other food spots you'd like us to try out. Also, make our day by subscribing to the email list. You can do that by entering your email in the block back at the top of this page.

Check out Jason blog at www.PastorBurden.com.

Here are some of the other spots we've been to:

Tracy's Seafood in Port Arthur

Abbie's Specialty Foods

Bruce's Seafood Deli

 

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Hallie Kathryn

a gods girlies file

You turn fourteen on Sunday. Last year you were surprised with a new dog.  This year you're getting advice.  Aging can stink.

My cherished daughter,

You surprised me when you asked me to write a birthday post for you.  You're the kid always with a strong sense of who you are and what you want. You prefer a pint of Bluebell (Dutch Chocolate) over a compliment and a book as opposed to long conversations.  So I'm all stirred up; ready to answer this invitation to write to you and about you.

You and I impulsively headed out the door last Saturday afternoon to take some pictures.  I have a new camera lens that I've been itching to use and earlier that afternoon we'd spotted a couple of cool picture props like that old gold Volkswagen van in a yard we passed.  You remember.  You also recall how I was curious as to why you wanted to use your guitar in your pictures.  You haven't picked it up in years.  Still, you thought a couple of snapshots of you picking out notes on your guitar would be fun.

guitar

It was while I watched you in front of me, guitar in hand, a girl on a mission, that a story swelled in my memory; one that I think fits the occasion.

About seven years ago, every Sunday night we'd sneak out the back door of Dorcas Wills Memorial Baptist at 6:50 on the dot, missing the second stanza of the closing hymn.  We'd hop in the car taking you a few streets down to a tiny house where you took guitar lessons.  You had decided you wanted to learn to play guitar.

You'd had a couple of months worth of lessons when your instructor asked to speak to me one night.  I sent you to the front room to watch one of the handful of worn out Disney videos available for Rylie's entertainment while we waited for you every Sunday.  She shared, of all things, her concern that you might have Attention Deficit Disorder.   The ironic thing about that suggestion is that you're the least symptomatic of the disorder out the Burden five.  Attention Deficit is something I know a little about.  I've read the book.  I'm probably going to write a book.  And I've got the t-shirt.  You do not have Attention Deficit Disorder. All of these thoughts were swirling as she explained, "She never wants to pay attention to the lessons I have for her".

She said

"She always wants to play her own song."

Always creating.  Slipped inside your lesson books you'd  bring folded-up pages of composed music with notes unintelligible to anyone but you. Apparently it had become a problem.

I had let you bring your music because I was glad you were writing your own. I was happy you were learning to love music.

You're still that way. You're unafraid to write the music to life.  And you're not afraid to sing your own tune even where others can hear. You're unmoved, for the most part, by those who don't understand its notes and verses. You are who you are, not who "they want you to be".

 a "do it myself" girl.

bday 3  Independence started for you while your legs still toddled in diapers.  Potty training, swimming and learning to ride a bike happened strictly on your time table ignoring any and every encouragement.  You would not be enticed with big girl panties bearing Dora or Disney princesses or the offer of an M&M for potty success.

A picture of a seven year old with a striped tank top and bird legs comes to mind. You were perched on your bike, helmet strapped on, pedaling down that little dead end street beside our house.  Struggling to keep your balance on a carpet of orange, dried-up pine needles, I knew to stay close behind you without having my hands directly on the bike.

Your dad and I shouted encouragement.

"Keep pedaling."

"Your leaning. Get your balance back."

"Get ready to turn."

"You're doing it!"

  It was YOUR feet that pushed the pedals in dizzying circular motion.  YOU learned to shift your weight when you started to lean one way too hard.  But, you had and have a cheering section that won't stop.

Remember that you have that in your dad and I.

Know that we experience immeasurable joy when you perform your poems and other things like your humorous monologue about "Wonder Bread". We're beside ourselves that you write some of the pieces you perform even though it's not a requirement in the contests you compete in.

Sometimes you don't enjoy our encouragement because it's in the form of discipline. We're there at your side to urge you to do better when your grades don't match your smarts.  I remind you OFTEN of the importance of smiling.

We're not your only fan section.  You've had beautiful people placed purposefully in your life all along the way including the crowd of people we call family who welcomed you that morning you said hello to the world for the first time.

What about that prestigious group you've been made a part of? You're a Babybug in a group of Ladybugs; a group of saintly women with life experiences you've yet to think of.

God has gifted you with family and friends of all ages.  There are women that listen to you and are wonderful to listen to. You have friends to walk beside you.  You're surrounded by men who give you a good picture of good company so that you'll know how to choose good company.

Stay you

- the girl with a determined nature and a mission all her own.

Don't stop writing your own music

and keep on pedaling

remembering these two things

1. Let those who love you join in on a couple of verses. Life is more beautiful when shared.

2. Look to the left and to the right and you'll see people cheering you on.  There won't be a time in your life that there won't be people to guide you along.  Learn, my dear, that sometimes you will need them and there will be times you have to ask.  People need people.

 Life is about balance

Your dad and I love you fiercely.

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He clutched it.  He pinched it between his thumb and index finger and held it up, eyeing it as if it were a diamond.  He rolled it between his fingers and then across the table.

"Smell it," he urged.

The question on his paper asked "What number sentence best represents an estimate of how many people attended the park on Monday and Tuesday?". But it was much too hard to concentrate on that.

He was in love......with a simple, round, orange smelly eraser.

Love and Smelly Eraser

He had bought it that day at the library.  And when I came to grab a small group of third graders for remediation, he brought it with him.  He opened up his math workbook just as did the other two students. But rather than becoming engrossed in the word problems in front of us, this little guy couldn't get his mind off of that eraser.

"I just love it so much!" he grinned.

I tried to capture his attention, tapping my finger on his math page. Normally I would have told him to put it away in his pocket.  I guess I was weak.  I mean, who couldn't be enamored, being witness to such happiness? As I asked the kids to line up to go back to class, I asked him if I could smell his eraser one more time, half for kicks, and half because I really wanted to.  He proudly held open his hand and allowed me to take in the orange aroma once again.  The other two girls followed suit and took in its sweet smell.  I suppose his love for that "fixer of mistakes" had rubbed off on us a little.

Such a picture he painted for me

-a picture of a child who was swept up.

Overtaken by the simple.  Not distracted, but wholly focused. And neither I nor my repeated requests to bring him back to earth were granted. He was single-minded...overcome with admiration.

On any other given day I wouldn't have allowed such behavior.  He was missing out on an opportunity to strengthen his problem-solving skills.  But that day I realized that maybe the life that's consistently snatched up by the world's demands is the one that's lacking.  We're missing out when we lose the ability to focus on what matters.  Some times it isn't math.

We're like that church in Ephesus; we forget our first love.  We're consumed with Facebook and our list of things that need to be fixed.  We rush to go at the first sight of the green light and don't stop, even when our heads have hit the pillow for the rest God gives his beloved.  And it seems when we do try and put our heart on better things, the world finger-taps the page, luring us back to its grips.

It shouldn't be.

We should delight in such a sweet aroma that surrounds us in Christ. And the fragrance of a life lived singly for Christ should be so sweet that it takes hold of the people around us ....just like my little friend with the smelly eraser.

     ....Thank God!  He has made us his captives and continues to lead us along in Christ's triumphal procession.  Now he uses us to spread the knowledge of Christ everywhere, like a sweet perfume. Our lives are a Christ-like fragrance rising up to God.......to those being saved, we are a life-giving perfume.

2 Corinthians 2:14,15

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To my Dearest:

You're a great gift giver, really you are; even though I've told the world several times over that you got me ten pounds of bologna for our first anniversary.   I know that I completely under-reacted the time you got me that cool dust pan with the built-in slot for my foot so I wouldn't have to bend over to sweep the muck up. You were thinking of my lower back problems.  You're always thinking of me.

love

Considering the things you give me on Valentines, and well, every other day of the year, I'm making a list of things I hope you won't be giving me this time around.

You deserve a little help

1. Unending patience- It's not that I don't love the patience you have with me, and it's definitely not that I don't need it.  I do.  But I figure you probably get tired of hearing me whine and complain about "how nothing's going right".  I know I exceed my text limit while messaging you that "we're STILL waiting for our appointment" and "when will you be home?".  You can't run and you can't hide.  Well I guess you could, but you don't.  You're so very patient.  My desire is that I'd be the wife that allows at least a pause to your patience by being less short-tempered and not so needy (By the way, could you pick up some bread and ice at Market Basket?).....kidding.

I'm hoping that this Valentines you won't give me....

2.  a response to everything I say, as well as a response to all facial expressions- I'm kind of a champ at ping-pong.  Some times I think marriage is a game of lobbing words and feelings to the other player with the hopes that the ball will be returned with precision  (right smack in the middle of my paddle).  In my better moments I'm aware of my overbearing need for to you respond to everything.......(respond positively, that is).  I really don't want you to respond honestly.  I want you to respond how I want you to respond.   I want you to be appalled when I'm appalled.  But I can tell if you're faking.  I want you to be interested in everything I tell you including what I read happened to a couple in Armenia.  You're supposed to be able to read all of my facial expressions, like the one I make as to say "Can you believe that?"

I feel much better (well a little) when you return the expression: "No, I can't believe that.  I'm flabbergasted alongside you!"

But this Valentines?

- I want to make a better effort to appreciate your steadfast nature which doesn't have the need to respond to everything.  That nature is just what I need to calm my crazy. No,  I'm not asking for a response to every little thing I say.

Something else that you've given me in years past that I'm asking you NOT to give me this time?

3. Constant companionship (at least companionship in the way I've always framed it) You come home from long days of work and sometimes you're worn out from talking. Your ears ache from listening-  No matter to me.  I have a whole day's worth of events to tell you about.  I proceed to tell you what happened to Hallie at lunch using more words than Hallie herself used to tell me about the event.  I share with you what the third graders are doing in Math this week and how HEB doesn't sell those Nature Valley Dark Chocolate Granola Bars that I like so well. Don't get me wrong.  I want to hear about your day too -and about what nightly news event has you stunned.  You just don't always work like that.  Companionship, you know, can consist of being in each other's presence

-not having to say a word.

Companionship should include silent understanding; respecting the other person's need to be at rest. This Valentines I vow

to give you space,

moments without words,

and afternoons without a play by play.

This isn't the first time I've made a commitment not to need these things from you.  And I'm sure it won't be the last.  Working on being the wife you deserve is a slow process (I think the process slows and maybe even reverses when you turn forty, and when you have teenagers), but I'm working on it.  That's why there's one gift that you always give me that I'll be thankful to get from you again.

Grace

Grace that hangs in there when I fall apart over burned out light bulbs and messy kid closets.

Grace that just listens when I complain about my figure while nibbling on a brownie instead of going to the gym.

Grace that guides me in things you weren't designed to care about like how I should get my hair cut next week.

And from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.  John 1:16

You are a vessel of his grace.  Thankful for you this Valentines and every day.

I love you.

 

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I saw the writing on the wall this morning.......or on the guitar rather.

It was written in blue crayon. The strokes mimicked the disorder that is looming large in our house this week. The messy letters were written a couple of years ago, but stuck out to me today like a sore thumb.

guitar

Just take yesterday morning for example.

Jason had somewhere to be at 6:00 AM. I had an appointment at 7:30. Throw in the teenager's missing car keys. Then there was that tooth that was supposed to be missing from underneath the nine year old's pillow, but was still there. Yesterday morning was filled with appointments and frazzled disappointments. 

Now copy and paste the like into Monday morning and afternoon.  The events may not have been exactly the same, but Monday was a messy challenge too.

Go back and there was weekend vomiting. There was saying goodbye to the second family member within a couple of weeks. Bad news from friends.  We're dealing with grades again already and the six weeks has just begun. Yesterday there was time spent trying to help a college two hours away track down a misplaced school transcript that we've already found for them once.  There was also the lost prescription for medicine that called for a trip to the pharmacy then the doctor's office and then back to the pharmacy.  This week has held forgotten lunch boxes and tests we're unprepared for. We have more appointments this week than we know what to do with. Even my website keeps "burping" whatever that means.... It's as if all nature around me has a bad case of indigestion.

The writing on the wall, or uh the pink guitar on Rylie's untidy floor was a reminder of the messy. The cold, wet dripping outside the window like my mood is slightly soggy.

Two moldy pieces of bread with life stuck right in the middle.

Sometimes that's just how we feel.

Sometimes we're face to face with the writing on the wall.

 The book of Daniel recounts the origin of the phrase "the writing on the wall".  The words "Mene, mene tekel upharsin" which appeared on a palace wall foretold of the destruction of Belshazzar and his kingdom. It spoke of impending doom.

Now look. I really have no place speaking of impending doom. My troubles are real, but they're small in the right light.  It's just that my human condition views through a magnifying glass.

I guess it's fair to say sometimes I'm swept up in impending gloom.

I looked up the exact meaning of mene, mene tekel..... Mene basically means your days are numbered. It was the meaning of the word tekel that caught my eye.

TEKEL; Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.

There's nothing that could be closer to the truth.

My circumstances and certainly my attitude, being weighed, is found wanting. Faced with frustration and disappointment, my vision becomes nearsighted. It's rather dark on the inside of that sandwich I find myself in.

Incomplete on my own.......I'm lacking.

Things outside my control have me grasping;........I'm found wanting......

It's times like these that we need to remember the words written on our hearts that outshine anything "written on the wall"

2 Corinthians 4-

6 For God who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of God’s glory in the face of Jesus Christ.

7 Now we have this treasure in clay jars, so that this extraordinary power may be from God and not from us. 8 We are pressured in every way but not crushed; we are perplexed but not in despair; 9 we are persecuted but not abandoned; we are struck down but not destroyed.

16 ....our inner person is being renewed day by day. 17 For our momentary light affliction[c] is producing for us an absolutely incomparable eternal weight of glory.

18 So we do not focus on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

Jesus answered, "Man (and this moody woman) shall not live on (moldy) bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God. Matthew 4:4