I'm wasting time this morning touching on a three day old tragedy that's already been written on and commented on thousands of times. Sometimes the keyboard and my conscience won't leave me alone until I pick up my iPad and say what's already been said if only to cast my ballot. I would have written yesterday, but I decided that my thoughts on the tragedy of the death of a gorilla could wait until after Memorial Day. 

You've heard about it I'm sure. 

At a zoo in Cincinnati, a beloved gorilla belonging to an endangered species was shot.

If you've already read about this you can skip on down to the picture where I plead for the madness to stop. 

Here's the story:

 A three year old boy at the zoo with his mom got under a guardrail and through an enclosure landing him in space shared by several gorillas. His mom claims she snapped a picture or two of the gorilla and her son was gone. 

Of course there's video of the ordeal. I watched the whole video of what ensued; not the forty-five second snippet posted by NBC which makes it look like a gorilla named Harambe is holding hands with the little boy about to play patty-cake with him.  The whole video shows the gorilla grabbing the boy's foot and dragging him through knee-high water. You can see in the video that there's at least one bolder in the water which, if hit, could seriously injure and possibly kill the boy. 

With the gorilla's strength and the speed at which he's dragging the boy, the boy looks like a rag doll underwater. Onlookers from above the exhibit are yelling and the boy is screaming off and on. Naturally the gorilla becomes anxious, maybe agitated, and pulls the boy away from where people can see. 

This all goes on for about ten minutes until zoo personnel arrive and shoot the gorilla. 

It's tragic. It is. Harambe was a beautiful animal and there aren't many like him left (around 30). I can't possibly know what his intentions were, or even if gorillas have intentions. I just know that these trained people, whose livelihood is to care for animals, decided that the best decision was to ensure that a little boy would come out of that gorilla's habitat alive. World-known zookeeper Jack Hannah, amongst other trained professionals familiar with male gorilla behavior and strength,  agrees with their decision. 

This mother had several children with her at the zoo that day. Witnesses say that her children were right beside her and that she was watching them. It's reported that her three year old had his hand in her back pocket. While she was taking pictures of the gorilla he slipped away. She immediately began calling for him. While calling his name a man saw that the boy had gone through the railing and had crawled through the enclosure. 

Thousands have disagreed with the zoo's decision to kill the gorilla, but more are those who have wished the mother dead using obscene, hate-filled language. 

 Over three hundred thousand people have called for a CPS and police investigation on this woman. They want her fined, jailed and her children taken away.  There have even been awful comments about the three year old. 

I had to take a Facebook break yesterday from reading vile things people had to say. Today I'm jumping in and giving my two cents even though I know many won't agree. Sometimes I can't help myself. There a few things that shouldn't be ignored. 

God values human life over animal life. So should we. 

God said, "Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground." Genesis 1:26

We're made in His image. As someone reminded me on Facebook today, God spoke and animals and the rest of creation were. He breathed His breath into us. 

 Even those we consider "the least of these" are more valuable to God than any beautiful bird or the kindest beast. Those who God highly values includes negligent mothers, overreacting meter readers who hit dogs, and college cheerleaders and rich vets who shoot lions. 

I'm not condoning animal cruelty. I'm thankful for and remain in awe of God's creatures.  I'm against the thought of any animal life being placed above the life of any human. God, used a lot of words, (and, oh yeah, Jesus' death on a cross) to say that people matter even when they mess up (and they do mess up). He also told us that if we love Him, that others ought to matter to us too (even the most dastardly folks).  

By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another. John 13:35

I get that you can love someone but still rightfully cast blame. It's true. You can. 

And I'm sure this little guy's mom wasn't watching him for a second. His hand left her back pocket and she didn't immediately turn around and check on him. There's a report that he'd already mentioned going in the water where the gorilla was. She told him no and proceeded to take a picture instead of watching him like a hawk. There was some negligence. No doubt. 

I just have to stand in line with parents who've messed up. Our watchful eyes close or look elsewhere for long enough for something awful to happen. It's happened to most, if not all, of us. Lucky for most of us, something awful has yet to happen. 

One time when my oldest was around 18 months old I opened the windows while cleaning house. We lived in a pier and beam house and had a concrete front porch below. The windows which reached just a few inches above the floor were screened. Just as I took my eyes off my son, he walked over to the window and pounded on the screen. The screen popped off and my son fell through the open window head first onto the concrete porch. Unbelievably he wasn't hurt. I don't know how. 

I placed enough blame on myself as I'm sure this mother in Cincinnati has. Had my son been hurt I can't imagine how much more I would have loathed myself just as I would have been torn up had my neglect caused harm to someone else (or some thing). 

We didn't know that gorilla and we don't know this woman. We don't know how long she looked away. We weren't there. We didn't see. We don't know whether or not something like this could happen to us though we say it could never happen. We're all neglectful. We all parent in error. 

You've heard hindsight's 20/20. Well we think we can beat that. From afar we think our vision is better than perfect. We've got 20/10. 

Even those of us with great vision and awesome parenting skills blink and sometimes things happen. 

A dead gorilla can have our affection. We can hold up signs and make shrines in his honor if we must.  We can mourn his loss. But we'd do best to show a little grace. This woman and every other inhabitant in this globe-sized  fishbowl we've created could use it. 

From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. 

John 1:16

Today's guest post is by Kaitlin Cook

Those of us that live in America love the word Freedom. Every patriotic holiday we are reminded of our Freedom and those who have sacrificed themselves for that freedom. We are so “free” we have “freedom fries” and “freedom toast” (because the French are not free enough to be associated with our fried potato sticks and fluffy breakfast bread).

What about our freedom from and for something besides America?

I have started this new “diet”. I am not trying to lose weight so hang with me a little longer. I lived with “reflux like symptoms” my whole life, but no diagnosis could be found. TMI ALERT: It is super miserable to finish eating and then have half of your meals come back up, hoping no one else at the table notices. One day my father-in-law started going to see a voo-doo doctor (not really, we just call her this). She specializes in Nutrition Response Testing (more info here).

So I gave in, and I went.

It is super crazy what she does and tells you all of the things your body “doesn’t like”. Hmm…that’s weird my body sure liked these foods of 20+ years before. I have been on this for a week now and have DREADED eating. I can have protein, veggies, and water. I also have an aluminum intolerance so nothing can come out of a can. I know you’re thinking “that’s not hard”. I would love to hear your yummy recipes with no eggs, milk, cheese, wheat, rye, sugar, flour, and fruit. Oh I cannot forget 4 supplements a day. Needless to say, it is EXHAUSTING trying to find dinner.

Monday, as I was thinking about my diet, what to eat, etc. and I realized some people feel like this about being a Christian. I see all of my secular friends wearing the cutest clothes, but if I were to put that on, my modest mouse self couldn’t bring myself out of the dressing room, much less the cash register. I would love to be able to sleep in on Sunday mornings like I have heard other people talk about, but I am in church. So why does being a Christian sometimes feel like a restricting diet?

Try the condition of your heart. Is your heart longing for God or for things of this world?

I am so glad I am a modest mouse and don’t give another man’s eye the opportunity to “wonder” more than their minds already do. There are certain parts of my body that are for my husband, not for yours. I am so grateful to go to church on Sunday and worship an awesome God with some amazing Christians and role models. I chose in my heart to follow Christ and I have so much freedom to love and be loved because of it. Pure, holy love. We are brought out of nothing, to be SET FREE!

Romans 6:6-7  We know that our old self was crucified with Him in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin. For one who has died has been set free from sin.

This is how I am going to choose to look at my diet from now on. It will no longer be the Burden to Eat Healthy, it will be the Freedom to Feel Better. Just like my relationship with Christ is not a Burden to Follow Jesus, but a Freedom to Have Eternal Life.

Here’s to our Freedom.

About Kaitlin:

Kaitlin's my virtual buddy. We've got a couple of awesome mutual friends on Facebook and mostly got connected that way. She's a bold and beautiful gal who's not afraid to share her faith including a thought or too that might not be the most popular (according to the world's standards).  She "tells it like it is" in the most gracious manner. Kaitlin and I have done a little geographical switcheroo when it comes to our abodes. I'm from central Texas where she now lives. Her roots are here in Southeast Texas where I now I hang my hat. Let her know you appreciate her thoughts today. 

And let me know if you have something to share on "A Thursday for Your Thoughts"...Maybe a yummy recipe for a wheat free muffin for Kaitlin or your own story of freedom. 

Happy Memorial Day Weekend! 

I'm thankful for those before us who have served. My gratitude is for women and men who are currently serving (like Kaitlyn's husband). Let's remember those who've gone before us, and also not forget to pray for those currently defending freedom. Pray for their families. 



It's a question we're rarely asked outright, but it's a question we should know the answer to. 

The third through sixth grade is in the middle of a study on what it means to be a Christian. I'm teaching tomorrow on "Sharing your testimony". I've taught this exact study before and am a little dumbfounded this morning. As I jot down my testimony to share in the morning, I'm noticing that it's a little different than it was when I shared it three years ago. 

I'm a little groggy from cold medicine as I type, but I can't help thinking this morning that our testimony is like a diamond.

 It's of great value. Our testimony is how we were pointed to God and how we've received eternity by trusting in him. A gift like eternity is worth sharing  1.because telling others is one way to show gratitude for what God is doing in our life 2. Because our story may point another to Him

Each testimony has brilliant quality, capable of shining in the right light. Your testimony can never be too boring to share nor is it so dark that it can't shed light. 

In Him was life, and that life was the light of all men. 

John 1:4

Shine it. 

 Our testimony has many facets. My testimony is forty plus years long. God started my story when I was "woven together" before birth. My testimony includes my struggles and what God teaches me through them. It's how he saved me and is saving me. It's a book with many chapters and important pages. Though He's constant, my relationship with him is dynamic. 

You've a magnificent story that God is writing in your life. Stories are meant to be told. 

Here's my testimony on fear. 

I probably wanted to crawl back in the womb the moment I was born. I don't remember ever being fearless. My mom tells stories of how I was terrified of men with facial hair, before I should have been old enough to distinguish such features. I was scared of going to the doctor and made life for my mom quite difficult anytime she had to take me. I can still hear the crinkling of the paper you sat on while the doctor would come at you with the wooden tongue depressor. I remember the smell of the room and an awful painted picture of a clown that hung on the wall (A clown in a doctor's office? He should have known better.)

I accepted Christ as my savior at an early age. My family was at a revival at our church that we attended regularly. I don't remember ever NOT going to church. I don't remember what the pastor said the night I was saved. I only remember the feeling I had when the invitation came. The Holy Spirit was nudging me to walk the aisle. For the first verse or two of the invitation the hammering of my heart was louder than that nudge. Strangely though, by the third, God's assurance that He was with me was enough for me to inch sideways to the edge of our pew. I don't remember telling my parents, or asking them. I just walked. 

The pastor explained the invitation I had from God by placing a dime in the palm of his hand and extending it toward me. He said something like this, "This dime is a gift I want you to have, but I would never make you take it. The choice is yours.". 

I accepted the gift that night and then started to worry about baptism. I was afraid of the water and didn't like to be in front of people. I would be obedient I thought. But I wouldn't like it. Despite my fear, my experience in being put under the waters was something exhilarating, something new. I was learning of God's peace and His presence in the midst of fear. His assurance that He would be with me in scary times. 

I wouldn't be rid of my struggle with fear and worry. After I became a Christian I was scared of coyotes jumping through my window. 

Of "robbers"

When Adam Walsh went missing I was deathly afraid I'd be abducted. 

Fear is something I continue to struggle with. I have an unhealthy fear of more things than I'd like to share. I'd rather lose my pinky toe than drive in a big city like Houston. I fear losing my loved ones. I'm constantly afraid I've said the wrong thing (even though I rarely stop talking or typing). I worry about people not liking me; doing things wrong and being a disappointment. 

Fear is a stronghold.

 It takes someone stronger than my fears to get me through. I need a constant friend; one who doesn't tire from hearing my unreasonable worries. I need One who reminds me that the giant obstacles I face are a blip in the face of eternity. 

In Christ, I am reminded that death and defeat have been overcome. One day all fear will be vanquished, until then He offers peace. Endure the terrifying and experience peace in the midst of it and then you understand "peace that passes understanding". 

Yes. I still tremble with fear; of things imagined and with realities I face. 

But then there's this. 

...I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. 

Romans 8:38-39

Love conquers fear. 

It's a long battle. But love is on my side. 

I must have walked ten million miles 

Must have walked ten million miles

Wore some shoes that weren't my style

Fell into the rank and file

So just say I was here a while

Ten million miles    -Patty Griffin

Today was Grandparent's Day at Helena Park Elementary. Maybe that's why I woke up thinking about my Granny's cotton. Here's a picture of it. 

These are two of many pieces she picked in her lifetime. They were a fixture in her car. Riding with her you'd always see them hanging from her rear view mirror. They were there as a reminder, she said, of hard work. 
She didn't complain or tell me a sad story. She only told me when I asked as a young girl why she had cotton on her mirror.  She only needed to tell me once. Her life would spin a story that words couldn't tell. 

 I interviewed her during high school about her life during the Great Depression. Regretfully I don't have the paper I wrote. I know she answered questions I had about the difficulties of that time, but the only thing I can remember is her telling me about a time she got to go to the movies. She stressed the good parts of life. 

She raised five children and thought each one was near perfect. My dad said he wasn't. 

That I'm aware of, she never had a new house or a new car.  Moving from town to town to another house in need of repair was a way of life for her while raising kids. 

She spoiled us grandkids with Campbell's ABC soup, sugar and butter bread, and vegetables cooked in bacon grease. At night she let us crawl up in bed with her and scratched our backs until she grew too sleepy. Then she threatened that if we didn't stop talking she'd send us to sleep by ourselves in the living room where some of us had decided a witch lived in the chimney. 

I don't remember a time when my Granny could take deep breaths. Her lungs were weak for as long as I can remember. She was in the hospital more times than I can count. 
Her life wasn't easy, but trouble wasn't the essence of her story. 

It was her remembrance of the good in the midst of the terrible. It was her way of taking off-brand cans of mixed vegetables and cooking up something wonderful. 

...It was the way, when her memory was failing her, that she'd write the grandkids' and greats' names on a spiral notebook over and over so that she'd remember. 

It was her keeping her purse at the foot of the hospital bed that contained a tube of lipstick she'd bought at the pharmacy. She was never without her purse or her lipstick. She was beautiful and strong even when she was frail. 

It was all this and her wearing a scarf and long sleeves to cover up her bruised and aged skin that made it matter so much what was underneath. 

The stories lived will be remembered more than the stories told. 

Thank you God for Granny. 

Thank you for the stories of grandparents. Thank you that their past has the power to beautifully shape our future. 

For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us...Romans 15:4

May we give back to them the gift of our presence. 

Ten years ago Jason performed the wedding ceremony for one of his best high school buddies. It was a beautiful ceremony.

The reception was equally exceptional. I accepted every appetizer the server offered including seconds on the mini quiches that came back around for re-runs. 

That wasn't my only unbecoming behavior. There was a grand dance floor that I'd determined not to set foot on. 

...That is until my ten year old scooted his seat back from the table and walked around to where I was. I imagine I was just about to put the sixth hors d'oeuvre in my mouth when he extended his hand and said 

"Dance with me mama". 

As lovestruck as I was at the notion of dancing with my son, I wasn't sure I wanted to dance in front of all those people. 

I'd never danced, outside my feeble attempt at the two-step at my high school prom. 

I'd look ridiculous 

But he was inistent so

I was willing. 

We danced, my son and I.

 I'm sure he stepped on my feet and I likely stepped on his, not including the times I side-stepped in a narrow miss. There were assuredly moments our movements were out of sync, our steps hardly familiar to common choreography. Maybe we were unsightly for a turn.  But we danced.  

Now ten years later I understand that the dance is less about the proper steps than it is the holding of his hand; those few precious, close moments on the dance floor. 

Yesterday I fussed at all three of my kids. I'm convinced they deserved most of what I said. It was a tacky tango. 

The youngest didn't make it past 7AM before I snatched her kindle from her (a discipline measure barely short of a death sentence). She had responded to a question with a huffy "Got it!",  whereas I've given adequate training as to a more appropriate response "Yes ma'am" or "I understand" (without the eye roll). 

There was a frustrating exchange with my teenage daughter too. An hour after I accused her of being the bossiest person I know I redacted my statement.  "You're probably just somewhere in the top ten ," I corrected myself, hoping our sense of humor could hijack the stressed conversation. 

I got on to our oldest in front of his buddies yesterday (when he wouldn't answer his phone) because he hadn't done what I'd asked yet. 

These are just a few of the simple mishaps of a twelve hour span yesterday.  I feel no shame in sharing them. There are worse parenting struggles I've encountered in time whose details reside in most tender parts of my heart. These difficulties include when your kid shuts you out. ...kid problems that you want to fix but you don't know how. ...kid struggles that you aren't fixing because you're distracted, overwhelmed or entirely too annoyed. Maybe you've had a season where you're completely broken concerning motherhood. 

Ecclesiastes 3:4 

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance...

Yes there will be those occasions, many of them, where our interaction with our children looks more like fumbling feet than dancing. One partner seems unwilling, wanting nothing more than to temporarily walk off the dance floor. 

May it not be us. 

There will be times we're painfully aware of fellow dancers who appear to have their steps down pat. 

May we mind our own steps; seeing beauty in our unique rhythm. 

Let us remember that dancing is an art of grace; where mother and child both misstep and then forgive. 

May we treasure those moments where our kids have more faith in us than we have in ourselves. May we learn to have a little faith in ourselves knowing the creator of the dance is alongside us. 

 Be willing. Show grace. Be grateful. Take delight. 

Dance with your children. 

The invitation is only open for a time. 

I'd rather scrub a pot with two day old dried-up residue from boiled chicken than go get groceries. In fact, yesterday I did that (as well as any other thing I could find to do) to avoid going to the store. My elbow grease is stronger than my shopping resolve. But I went to Walmart this morning and it wasn't so bad. My Walmart trip was made more pleasant by an employee named Carole. 

I met Carole last weekend while shopping, only I didn't know she was Carole. I just knew she was the lady that helped me find the spicy mayonnaise I was looking for. 

  

I'd looked in the mayonnaise section and in the ethnic aisle with no luck. She just so happened to be stocking shelves somewhere around the pickles. So I asked her if she knew where I could find it. I can't tell you how many times in different stores I've asked an employee if they know where an item is and they respond with "No", not "Let me help you find it". 

Carole and I looked, but couldn't find the mayo I was searching for. Already an hour into shopping, I quickly gave up. About five minutes later, she found me aisles over in produce with a smile and the jar of the spicy mayonnaise. She waved it in the air; a flag symbolizing the anticipated exodus. I could finally check out. 

Customer service is a big deal for those of us who have looped aisles seven through nine several times looking for flax seed. An employee's pleasant assistance is valued when you've been shopping with your kid and you just want to go home, but you can't find flank steak. 

That's where I saw Carole again, by the meat. I recognized her immediately. Today she assisted me in finding the steak, making it possible for me to try out those Vampire Tacos I got the recipe for yesterday when I was avoiding the supermarket.   After chunking the two packs in the basket I approached her nearby in the frozen section, probably creeping her out at this point. 

 I looked at her name. I reminded her that I was the customer she'd helped find the spicy mayo last Saturday and told her how grateful I was for her help. Even more,  I was thankful for her bright personality and her willingness to go the extra mile making her job about people and not just a paycheck. 

She's not the only helpful employed I've encountered Port Arthur's Walmart on Memorial Boulevard, but I'd say she's been the most remarkable.

 Kindred spirits, those with an aversion to buying groceries, look for Carole. If you see her, know that she'll help you find the Queso fresco or the sheet set you're looking for. Give her a smile and a word of appreciation.

I wish there were a Carole at every store. Maybe your store has one. If you're her manager (sure wish you would see this,) give that woman a day off. But be sure to hang on to her. Shoppers, stores, and the world in general needs more of her. 

In our world of big names, curiously, our true heroes tend to be anonymous. In this life of illusion and quasi-illusion, the person of solid virtues who can be admired for something more substantial than his well-knownness often proves to be the unsung hero: the teacher, the nurse, the mother, the honest cop, the hard worker at lonely, underpaid, unglamorous, unpublicized jobs.

Daniel J Boorstin

Mother's Day isn't so much about giving mom the gift as understanding the gift of Mom. 

  

Dear Mom,

I remember Mother's Day gifts I made you using construction paper. I'd draw you a skinny flower vase with flowers tucked inside.  They'd be framed by "kid scratch" lettering sharing the same sentiment I'd written 365 days before: "Happy Mother's Day!". 

On your special day the siblings and I would get up early to surprise you with breakfast or Dad would take us all out to eat. We did that didn't we?...surprise you with breakfast? Because honestly the celebration of those special days when I was younger is blurry in my memory. Even though I thought you were a stellar mom,  most effort those days was orchestrated by Dad and my teachers. Those years Mother's Day was a day designated on the calendar to do nice stuff for you. 

These days your fridge is void of construction paper pictures bearing the stick figures and hearts that we used to draw for you.  Your jewelry box is still probably full of WalMart jewelry that we gave you that wasn't your style.  Thanks for receiving those gifts that didn't come close to touching who you are as a mother. 

I'll miss dinner with you on Sunday. I know that even though the other kids and grandkids will be there, that your table will feel smaller because some of us are missing. 

I know because I get it now. 

I know what it's like to have one missing from the dinner table because I have one now who's gone off to college. 

I know what you must have went through, when you sent me off to school. I remember those tough Sunday goodbyes in the driveway when I was headed back to school.  They're not far off from those afternoons now, when I stand in the yard not wanting to go into a house with one less member after Hayden's truck has driven out of sight. 

There's much I understand now because I'm standing in the same place you've stood. 

  

I know what it's like to be tired. Not the kind that a nap will fix. It's a deep down tired that a pillow can't help. It's in your bones where anxiety lives (regarding the things we want to fix for our kids). 

I even know what it's like to be dumb now. To look in the face of my kid and see them glaring at me, thinking I don't have a clue about apparel choice.  The ten year old is smarter than me now, just as I was smarter than you when I was about her age. 

I know now about Saturday mornings that consist of flipping pancakes after some of the family has left the table and some are having seconds, when you've yet to eat. 

I understand how it feels to want to smack someone who's been awful to your kid. How it feels to be surprised at yourself for feeling such things. I remember being surprised at your anger on a couple of occasions where I'd been treated badly by someone. 

I get now why you hid chocolate in the hutch in your room. It was the only way you'd get to enjoy a treat because kids are vultures and they devour snacks. Even when you set a limit on snacking, they sneak sweets and you find the wrappers under their bed. 

I know what it's like to have suffered shopping at the mall and then your kid wears the outfit they "had to have" one time

...What it's like to have put clothes on hangers for your kids and then find those un-worn clothes on the floor, still on the hanger 

What it's like to internally roll your eyes when they say they have nothing to wear

I now understand your disappointment that my  second grade "Smokey the Bear" fire prevention poster didn't place. I know how you felt, because I felt the same way when Hayden got gypped in a middle school competition on project he'd worked so hard on and done so well on. 

I get now that Dad got to be the fun one and that the tough stuff mostly fell on you. 

I know what it's like to see your kid cry, to experience them beam when they ace a difficult test

...what it's like to be worried about their health, to fear for their safety. 

You never told me how hard it was. Your tears were hidden. You worked tirelessly, quietly. You didn't keep a record of what you'd done for us. You were proud of us without making too big a fuss, lest we get a big head.    You loved us with a love that's almost too big for a human heart. 

I get it now. 

Another Mother's Day is upon us and I still don't know (as I hardly ever do) what to get you. I just know I celebrate with you. 

 Maybe not on the map, but in a larger place, in spirit. The place I hold in my heart for you is so much bigger now because I get it. 

Happy "I Get It" Day. 

  My house was overrun by teenage girls this weekend. It's Tuesday now and I'm still finding traces of the girls around the house like the extra razor,and shampoo and conditioner in my shower. There's a Bose speaker in my living room that somebody left here. It's quiet now but it boomed Christian rap last Saturday. I'm still expecting to find socks and fruit loops in the couch cushions when I get ready to look. 

 It was Spring Retreat and we were a host home. Jason graciously volunteered our house as a host home for the girls five years ago and then camped out in the apartment, missing out on all the fun. It's become an annual tradition. 

  

I'm being subtle here (and it's a challenge) but let's be honest,  I've entered an older, crankier time. I mutter things under my breath like "kids these days drink one sip out of a water bottle and then leave it there".  Sunday morning I spied five ownerless water bottles, each missing approximately one tablespoon of water. I shook my head; maybe because I hadn't gotten the sleep a forty-something requires, or it could have been the fact that thirteen girls getting ready in two and a half baths is stressful (Then again, it could be the older, crankier thing). 

Spring Retreat wrapped up Sunday morning at the 10:15 service. I sat behind our teenagers secretly glad I'd be getting the house back around noon. We had a guest preacher who gave statistics about the probability of these kids staying in church when they're older. The numbers are staggering. 

• Only kids whose parents both go to church consistently, have a good chance of staying in church as adults. 
• Kids whose parents don't attend church have around a six percent chance of sticking around.

 I looked at the kids in front of me and noticed that the odds are stacked against many of them. In response to the six percent figure, one of the teenagers in close view elbowed the girl beside her and proudly whispered  "That's me."  And yet she was there. 
She was here in my house. So were some of the fifty percenters. There were girls at my house this past weekend who were in best bracket. They have an eighty percent or better chance of being a part of a church as adults because their parents make it a priority for them to be there even when there are more weekend opportunities than they can shake a stick at. 

These messy, loud, giggly (fun-loving)girls were in my house filling their hearts and minds with Jesus this past weekend. They discussed obstacles in their Christian walk and how to get around those obstacles. They prayed for each other. They built each other up. Yesterday our oldest daughter received an encouraging bible verse from a friend who attended this weekend. She sent her friend one too. 

There were also boys across town growing in their walk this past weekend.

 Those barely touched water botrestored  me with "the glass is half full" optimism. 

I'm glad those girls were here. I'm encouraged by the upcoming youth. It's a generation of busy, but devoted eighty/something percenters, some passionate six percenters and some kiddos in between who love God and are growing to know Him more in a time where the world seems weightier than it did in my day and age. 

Proverbs 22:6 Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.

Be thankful for them. 

Pray for them. 

Support them and train them by taking them to church. 

Get to know them. 

Bring them to my house (just not this weekend). 

Signed,

A Hopeful Mom

My nostrils were filled with warmed chicken and rice leftovers this morning as I filled two thermoses for the girls' school lunch. I was only slightly awake when my daughter walked in bearing a scent unlike last night's casserole. It wasn't her usual smell of deodorant and hairspray. I knew this sweet smell from days passed but couldn't place it, too busy stuffing cosmic brownie halves into baggies while shouting out a request for a bobby pin. 

It wasn't until I was getting ready in my bathroom that I noticed a dusty bottle of perfume missing from its place on the shelf.

 I immediately remembered the ten year old fragrance, Tommy Girl, worn in the stage when I was diapering the baby and practicing A,B,C's with my preschooler. It was the perfume I wore when my oldest would rub his nose in my shirt when getting in a good snuggle. 

These days I rarely use perfume. (It gives me headaches). I've also thought it unnecessary. Then there's a lack of thought in general concerning fragrance-wearing. It's on my "too busy to think about that" list. 

My newest scent (perfume that I've had for five years) sits on my dresser. It's only picked up on special occasions and then given precisely one squirt. 

My daughter has her own perfume. But today she chose to use a scent of mine she found suitable. 

I smile at that thought. 
Today I'm wearing that old perfume; aware that others, my children included, pay attention to the fragrance I wear.

 May we, as moms and encouragers of faith, keep such an awareness.

 May we sense the responsibility we have in possessing a fragrance that others will want to put on.  May we wear such fragrance as an offering (even when it causes headache, or a little extra effort). Help us to remember that a subtle fragrance is better than one that's overbearing. 

Most of all, may we continually acknowledge that the precious gift of a beautiful fragrance comes from above. 

Live a life filled with love, following the example of Christ. He loved us and offered himself as a sacrifice for us, a pleasing aroma to God. Ephesians 5:2

To my email subscribers, my apologies for sending this post to you three times (Correction, four times) trying to get it right. It won't happen again (this week). 

If you haven't subscribed, please do, despite my admission that I occasionally harass subscribers with the sending of multiple posts.