We have icicles hanging off our eaves over our front walk. But these aren’t just icicles. They are killer-death icicles. You only have to look at them to know any moment one of those babies is going to let loose and come plunging down with skull-fracturing force. And did I mention it’s melting out? Because it is.
When I first realized the peril just outside our front door, I started plotting solutions to keep the residents of the Davis-Mossburg house safe. It turned out we were fresh out of hardhats, so that wasn’t an option. I tried to convince my husband to shovel a path across the lawn to bypass the icicle-killer-death path… but that wasn’t an option either.
And this is when things got crazy.
I started thinking about Chester and how good he was at jumping through the snow, making paths to find the perfect pooping spot. And a scheme was born. I decided Chester was just the candidate to blaze a trail through our front lawn so we could reach our cars in safety.
I snapped Chester’s leash on him, armed myself with a box of stale ‘Nilla Wafers as incentive and we set out to save the family.
Chester was pretty excited about those cookies, until I threw the first one into the snow bank. He looked at me like I was crazy. I couldn’t really blame him, since I don’t think I’d get too excited about plunging into 30 plus inches of snow, wearing nothing but a leash. However, to a Beagle, cookies are pretty exciting, so after I tossed in a couple more to sweeten the deal, he decided it was worth it.
I don’t think he ever quite figured out what I wanted of him, but as long as I kept throwing cookies into the snow, Chester kept after them. I tromped behind him, beating the path down even more, until we had a big arc, bypassing certain icicle death.
Clumping through the snow drifts, wearing my husbands big boots (one of which was leaking), holding a box of ‘Nilla Wafers in one hand and a leash in the other, I realized I had completely lost it. Completely. The snow had finally gone to my head, causing me to do the kind of ridiculous things that make the neighbors stare at you. One too many snow days had pushed me over the edge.
On the other hand, I’d rather be crazy than impaled by an icicle. So I guess I’ll embrace a little insanity, although Chester may think twice before he accepts another cookie.
My kids love to talk to me while I’m taking a shower. Something about that time of my day brings out massive amounts of conversation in them… probably the fact that it annoys me greatly.
They love to talk to me during my shower, but they do it with great trepidation, because it’s gotten them in trouble so many times. I precede each shower with strict instructions to stay out of my room and leave me alone, with a small contingency for emergency situations.
Today, I heard Leah calling to me from my bedroom doorway. I shouted back that I couldn’t hear her. Next I heard her talking from inside my bedroom, so again I called out, explaining that I couldn’t hear her and told her to come into my bathroom. (Remember, this whole conversation was being held while shower water was drumming in my ears, so I wasn’t exactly at the top of my game)
Now that the inner sanctum had been reached, she was ready to deliver her great communication:
Leah: Mommy, I’ve got to talk you about so’thing.
Me: What is it?
Leah: ‘Saiah’s butt stinks.
That was it. That was the amazing revelation that caused her to breach all the rules and enter my august, showering presence. We need to work on what actually constitutes an emergency at our house.
I think one of the hardest parts of sending my son off to Kindergarten, was the fear that some other kid would malign his self-worth. You know… a bully. But we’re over halfway through the school year and it’s been smooth sailing.
Until yesterday. Isaiah got off the school bus, his little 5-year-old shoulders slumped. I asked him what was wrong and he said that some kids had been picking on him. I was getting ready to pull out my phone and speed-dial the school, but I dug a little deeper.
“What did they do to you?” I queried. Isaiah replied with great indignation, “They… they… they called us The Three Musk’teers!”
I wasn’t super successful at not laughing, but I did try to pry more of the story out of him. Turns out, when he’d gotten on the bus with his two other Kindergarten buddies, the bus driver had said they were like The Three Musketeers. Some of the older kids had latched onto this nickname and began saying it repeatedly to them.
Isaiah went on to tell me, “They weren’t being good friends. An’ I yelled at them! One girl kept looking at us and saying it, so I told her, ‘I’ve got my eye on you!’ and I told her, ‘You better watch out, because I’m almost 6!’”
I tried to convince him “The Three Musketeers” wasn’t really a derogatory nickname. We went home and looked up The Three Musketeers in Google Images to see that, not only were they some guys with cool swords, but also a yummy candy bar. He still wasn’t too impressed, although he liked the looks of the candy bar.
The thing that concerns me is, today is his 6th birthday! What is going to happen to those bullies now? They’d better not mess with him, or he’ll unleash all of his newly acquired big-kid fury. I hope I’m not the one getting a call from the school…
I love the line that Misty Edwards sings, “Jesus, here I am, Your favorite one.” One time I quoted it to a friend and from the look on his face, you would have thought I said, “Jesus is going to eat me for dinner tonight.”
He asked me incredulously, “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Sure I do.” I replied. “But I think you’re His favorite one too!”
I 100% believe that each of us is Jesus favorite one, but how does that work logistically? Wouldn’t all of us being His favorite essentially make none of us a favorite? I mean, the very nature of favorite implies singling out.
Let’s pretend that you’re taking one of those amazing quizzes that are perpetually making the rounds of the internet:
- What is your favorite movie? “Sound of Music”
- What is your favorite food? “Corn on the cob”
- What is your favorite animal? “Platypus”
What if the next question demanded, “Now, of those 3, which is your favorite?” It’s a ridiculous question, because they are all your favorites. One can’t be chosen over the other, as each item is from a different category and impossible to really compare with the others.
I think that may be how the Lord looks at each of us. He doesn’t view humanity as a mass and say, “Well, I like that one’s nose better, but this one has better social skills, and the one over there sings prettier.” He doesn’t compare us based on each other.
Rather, I imagine He sees us each in our own category, made unique by Him, with our own individual characteristics, talents, smile, temperament and worship to bring Him. To Jesus, a new genre was unveiled when every one of us was born: incomparable to those around us, completely different from anything else He’s ever made.
We love to judge ourselves by the person next to us, but Jesus’ only measurement is based on who He created us to be, totally non-contingent on other people. He says, “You’re the perfect Hannah!” “Rob! Wow, just what I imagined!” “You’re so good at being Kelly!” “You’re exactly what Tim should be!” “I love how you do that Kevin thing!”
He looks at you and says, “You’re my favorite one!”
We had a plumber scheduled to come today; old houses just need plumbers sometimes (especially when the mice have chewed through a pipe, but that’s another story for another day). In the grand tradition of home repair professionals, he didn’t give us an appointment time more specific than “sometime in the afternoon.”
Isaiah was thrilled when he heard a plumber was coming. His experience with pipe-fixing people is Mr. Mike from church, who explains everything he is doing to Isaiah and when he’s about to do something extra cool, he calls Isaiah over to watch. I tried to explain that this plumber was not quite like Mr. Mike. I also cautioned that the plumber might come while Isaiah was at school. My son still had his heart set on seeing him.
So when the plumber called to say he was on his way, just as I was taking Isaiah to school, all his 5-year-old hopes and dreams were crushed and he burst into tears. I tried again to explain that the plumber wasn’t going to be cool, like Mr. Mike. Isaiah replied with a wail, “But I won’t get to see what he looks like!”
Well, if he just wanted to see what he looked like, I could solve that! I called Chris, explained the dilemma and asked him to take a picture of the plumber for Isaiah, to which he reluctantly agreed. When I told Isaiah the good news, he was much relieved, but had a further request, “Can you ask Daddy to take a picture of each side of him?” I told him not to push his luck.
When I got home from dropping Isaiah at school, I quizzed Chris on the status of the plumber picture. It was still un-taken. Turns out, asking to take a picture of a repair person sounds all great on paper, but is actually a little awkward in practicality. Plus, while most plumbers (in my experience) are big, jolly, talkative guys (like Santa Clauses without a beard), this guy was quiet and business-like. So that made the whole plumber-photo-shoot idea not seem so great.
Chris needed to head back the office, but the picture was still looming. “It’s cute!” I assured him. “It’s for a 5-year-old. It’s not everyday that the guy gets to be somebody’s hero… except maybe when he unplugs someone’s toilet.” And then I pulled the trump card, “I feel funny asking because I’m a girl, but it’s not so awkward for you, because you’re both guys.” Now, my husband would do anything to protect me, so he grimly marched down to the basement. I could hear him saying apologetically, “You know how it is when you’re 5…” He came back a couple minutes later, showed me the picture and rolled his eyes. But DEEP down inside, I know he was thrilled to do it for his son (and me)!
The plumber did turn out to be a very nice man. Apparently he wasn’t too scarred by the requests for pictures or the fact that my daughter exclaimed, “What’s that smell?!” every time he walked through (I don’t think he actually heard her). Plus, you probably get that reaction a lot, when you’re an avid smoker. And he fixed all our leaky pipes! So, all in all, it turned out to be a pretty good day in plumbing.
Whenever your kids have a meltdown because they can’t have an extra piece of candy, or because you asked them to pick up their play-doh, or because putting on their shoes (slip-on kind) is such an overwhelming task…. If you’re anything like me, you roll your eyes and sarcastically comment to yourself, “It must be REALLY hard to be 3!” (or whatever the respective age of the Whiner may be).
This past week, I’ve kind of been compelled to eat my words. Turns out, it might be harder to be a kid than I thought.
We visited my husband’s family in Arkansas for the holidays and about halfway through our trip, my ear plugged up. I was mildly annoyed. Then it started to throb with pain, which led me to become increasingly… distraught.
I filled myself up with sinus meds and attempted to sleep it off. Eventually I awoke, due to feeling like an atom bomb had exploded in my eardrum. I stumbled into the kitchen to find Chris. He said, “How are you feeling?” and I started bawling… in front of his whole family. Now, I’m not a big crier and it usually only occurs if Holy Spirit is tearing me up, or if I’m dying. This crying was due to the latter.
On the 30 minute drive to MedExpress, I deliriously hypothesized about my diagnosis. “It’s just an ear infection,” I said. “They’ll just give me Amoxicillan like they do for the kids,” I said. “I’ll be all better in 24-hours, just like the kids,” I said.
Ha.
The doctor looked in my ear and, being the master of understatement, said, “Looks a little tender in there.” He then gave me 5 prescriptions: everything from antibiotics to steroids to ear drops (valued at $130). I was starting to realize that my dreams of being right as rain in 24-hours might be shooting a little high.
And a week later? I’m still not right as rain. Oh, the pain is gone (Thank You Jesus), but my ear has apparently decided to remain permanently stopped up, dizziness has become normal, and I’d really prefer to go to bed at 8:30 pm each night. Not to mention the never ending ear drops, which I wouldn’t exactly call pleasant.
Seriously, this whole ear infection thing is not the quick heal my kids played it up to be. If I’d known it was this rough, I’d have given them a little more respect. Like I said, maybe it’s harder being a kid than I thought.
Isaiah and I were sitting on the couch this morning and Isaiah started to tell me about his long term life goals. This is what he said:
Mommy, when I get big, I want to do what Daddy does. (I asked him if he meant be a pastor) Yeah… and be a Daddy!
I would be the bestest Daddy in the whole world. If the son said, “I want to go to the carnival.” I would say, “Yes. Maybe tonight or maybe tomorrow night.” And if my son said said, “I want to go to the Play Museum.” I would say, “Maybe tonight or maybe later.” And if my son said, “I want to buy a cool ornament for the Christmas tree.” I would say, “Yes.”
I’m going to have 4 kids: 2 boys and 2 girls. And I’m going to name them John, Zachery, Chloe and Leah. And that will be good, because we already have a Leah.
And Mommy, what do you think Leah will do to her children? I think she will treat them like I’m going to treat mine.
And I’m going to be a train driver and a gold collector, a builder and all the cool stuff. And be what Daddy does and go to the gym and even be a wrestler.
My husband made a comment the other day that really caught my attention. We were discussing some recent events in the news and he said, “It’s interesting that the gay community is about 4% of the population of the United States.” However, the media, movies, and even popular opinion make it seem that the percentage would be much higher.
The reason this conversation sparked my interest is because Ron Luce has predicted that if things continue in the same vein they’re currently in, only 4% of teenagers will grow up to be genuine Christian adults. So, theoretically, in the next generation, the Christian community and the homosexual community will be about the same percent of the American population. When Christians hear a statistic like that, we seem to throw up our hands and say, “That’s horrible! Oh poor us.” I say, “Not so fast, people!”
I was recently at a conference, where the speaker claimed that about 10 years ago, 12 members of the gay community met in a hotel room to strategize how to shift the culture of our nation in their favor. They drew up a plan that encompassed movies, music, TV, politics, etc. And it worked! Our country’s perspective regarding homosexuality has undergone a drastic change, to the point it has become a socially viable lifestyle.
Here’s the bottom line. If gays can bring that much of a cultural reprogramming, being about 4% of the population, Christians can transform our country that much more, with Holy Spirit backing us up! We are completely able to bring cultural reformation, to be a driving force that shapes the face of our nation and advance Kingdom principles.
But. The homosexual community did not change a nation’s mindset by acting “straight”. They didn’t think they could advance their agenda by pretending to be like everyone around them. And neither can the Church. We need to lose the idea that we can talk the same, walk the same, be entertained the same, and look the same as those around us and still achieve a change in our world.
If we desire to bring cultural reformation, we must be focused, strategic, purposeful and wholeheartedly committed to our goal. We must lay aside the weights that hold us back and keep us from walking in our destiny of advancing the Kingdom. There are people waiting for you to show them the truth, to change their perspective on life, to show them Jesus. Walk as children of light and transform your community and ultimately the world!
I’m surrounded by knitters: experienced knitters, free-spirited knitters, thrifty knitters, picky knitters, even knitters that knit in church. Finally, all this knitting peer-pressure got to me, and I took the plunge into the world of needles and yarn.
I’ve been on this knitting adventure for a couple of months now. I know 3 different stitches (2 I learned on purpose, and 1 by accident). I can slip a stitch for the edges (which I think may be called “selvedge,” but I’m not too sure on that). I can cast on and off… if I have a diagram in front of me. I’ve given other novice knitters advice and showed someone how to do a stitch. I even joined the knitting group at my church.
So, when I finished my first scarf today, I was feeling pretty good. In fact, I felt like a “real” knitter. I decided I was ready to start my next project all on my own and began searching the internet for a pattern. I was wanting to knit my daughter a scarf, so I put something like “kid scarf knitting patterns” into the search engine. What came up were patterns for kids to knit… and I didn’t understand a word of them!
OK, not completely true. I understood enough to know they were way out of my league. “Cables?” Are you serious?! That put a bit of a pin in my big old knitting ego. Maybe I’ve still got a lot to learn from my knitter friends.
In the mean time, I did find a pattern I think I may be able to handle. And as long as I keep knitting, I think I’m a “real” knitter, even if I have no idea what “cable needle at front of work” means.
