Breathing Life To Dried-Up Bones

A joyful heart is good medicine, 

but a crushed spirit dries up the bones. 

Proverbs 17:22

I came home grumpy. Irritated.
Wanting to pop something with a BB gun.

And that's the mild version.

The husband put up with me for a while before he asked ,

What in the world is wrong with you?

I said I just wanted to hear some good news. Did he have any?

He had none. This is his week of no work. No work equals no pay. No pay presents unique challenges to paying the bills. Challenges to paying the bills creates a treasure hunt of sorts for things to sell on craigslist.

It's never a dull moment around here.

So anyway, he listened and more importantly, he understood my mood. We fired up the grill, made supper, and fed the kids. It was around that time that my phone rang. It was my dad.

We talked. He told me stories. I laughed. It was exactly what I needed. I repeated the same stories to the husband who (strangely enough) didn't laugh near as much as I did. He washed dishes. I dried. He asked me if I was all right. I looked him in the eye and said yes.

Somehow, in the midst of that unexpected laughter, I found hope.
In hope, I found peace. And in that peace, I found rest.

God's not finished with us yet.

Putting Off Monday

I've never been anti-Monday, but there are some weekends I would rather not see end. This has certainly been one of them. Maybe it's the beautiful weather, the windows open, the house clean... Maybe it's the fact that once Monday hits, all these things become null and void. One thing is for certain, I'm trying to make it last as long as I can.

For starters, I've had caffeine. Lots of it. I'm sitting outside even as the sun sinks far below the western tree line. I put away all the laundry just moments earlier and completed one long overdue craft project.

And I just offered to take the youngest for a milkshake.

Welcome Summer.



Happy Mother's Day. =) 

How Confident Are You?

I watched something unfold at my church on Sunday morning that I'm still trying to process. It was nothing overly dramatic, nothing too far out there, nothing that unusual... but it was something. Something that contains a story. A lesson. A not-to-be-missed moment.

I just can't quite put my finger on it.

So I am here to retrace my steps.

The daughter and I went to church together because one kid went to an amusement park, one kid went to his own church, and the husband was working. If I may say, we both looked pretty snazzy in our new spring dresses (though she might have been more snazzier than me) as we sat down together in our almost-usual spot.

(and I probably need to focus here if I intend to get anywhere with this).

In the midst of singing Because He Lives, I had a moment totally unrelated to what I am hoping to get at, yet it deserves sharing nonetheless. One reason I adore the church we attend is the hymns that are sung. I've got nothing against the newer praise and worship songs/choruses/one-liners-that-are-sung-twenty-times, but I love traditional, There's Power In The Blood music. These songs take me back to church days with my grandma. I can still see those red hymnals in front of us and her purse beside me that she would let me look through to find paper and pens. My brother and I played many a round of the dot-line/make-a-box-game-to-put-your-initial-in...

(and I apologize profusely for not having a better description than that)

...and I can even recall a few bruises I received from that same brother due to his twisted appreciation of a knuckle-buster he called "being frogged." Grandma would let us get away with so much before she would get onto us to sit still and listen. Time went by and I would eventually sit in that same pew by her with my own little family and my own little kids digging through her purse. If we weren't beside her, we were behind her or in front of her. You get the picture. Always near wherever she was sitting. It's because of this that I know (knew) her singing voice well. A soprano that could hit (or at least sincerely try) those high notes when they would come around. There are certain songs that I can still hear her singing even today:

Victory In Jesus. We Shall See The King. Star of Bethlehem.

Because He Lives.

So when I heard the beginning notes of that hymn on Sunday, the strings of my heart felt that gentle tug. Oh, Grandma. I could hear her singing right along with me even if her voice was only heard in my mind. I began to think of how thankful I am that one day I will hear her voice again. For real. There is so much joy in knowing salvation.

Anyway.

In the midst of the sermon, after the singing was finished, I watched an elderly man make his way back to his seat. He stopped in the middle of the aisle, though, and looked around. It was obvious to anyone watching that he was confused. He took a few steps back only to retrace his steps again and threw up his hands in what basically amounted to a moment of surrender. He was lost. An usher stepped in and led him to the next aisle where he was met by another usher (and yes, this is a fairly big church). From my vantage point, I could see an empty spot where a Bible lay on a pew. Sure enough, that was his spot. When that sweet saint of a man located the place where he had been sitting, he raised his Bible in the air along with a victory shot. The pastor repeated what the man said so we all could hear:

"It's the only thing that has never abandoned me."

I'm telling you, that moment did something for me. When I think about a man of his age with all the experiences and stories he surely has stored within, the confidence with which he spoke regarding the Book that he held up... well, you see, that's what I can't quite put my finger on. It was more than just a passing distraction. It's another one of those moments in which there really are no words to describe what my spirit longs to express.

Except I hope I never forget that image or that man.

Or my grandma's singing voice.

Brothers

Of the canine kind.

A picture of my weekend. =)

When I Grow Up, I Will Live In Washington State And Have Twelve Children (hysterical laughing in the background)

I am a mom of three kids. Back when I dreamed of being a mom of three kids- well, technically I dreamed about being a mom of twelve kids, but then I had one, went for two, and decided three was a good place to stop... but anyway, back when I dreamed of being a mom, I dreamed of a busy, busy world full of chocolate chip cookies and ice cold milk. My kids would love me and hug me and wish me a daily farewell with a kiss on the cheek. They would seek me out for advice and listen intently to my stories and write about me in school essays. In short, I would be the center of their world.

You can stop laughing now.

You know, for a while, that's not too far off from how it was. With the exception of the My Mom Is My Hero essay, I do believe that for quite some time I was nothing short of Supermom to my kids. I knew the dream was coming to an end, however, when one particular day the standard kiss-on-the-cheek goodbye was masterfully avoided by one of my little sweet ones. Since that time, it's been nothing but downhill and just the way it should be. I'm no longer the primary cookie baker and I can't keep enough milk in the house to offer it ice cold. While I'm pretty confident I am loved and hugs really aren't that rare, I don't know if my advice is really adhered to or merely endured. And my stories? Well, I think somewhere along the way they stopped listening.

Hence, the birth of this blog.

Twelve kids? I also wanted to marry my high school sweetheart and live in the Northwest.

I've never really been good with setting goals and following through.

For my husband of might-as-well-say twenty years,
My three teenagers who do not to shrink from my hugs,
And my newly adopted southern home,

Some of the best-laid plans really aren't the best plans at all.

The Kittens Have A Home (And It's Not Mine)

Well, I expected today to be a better day, and it did not disappoint.

Three hours were spent in blissful solitude as I sat tucked away in the old curator's office of the museum. My postcard assignment continues and for the most of the morning, I read through fragments of a pre-World War I era. I've said it before and I'll say it again... this is right up my alley. If only a volunteer position could miraculously transform into a paid position, all would be perfect in my world. The husband keeps telling me I should pursue a master's in museum studies and I keep telling him, "If only I were twenty years younger." I don't know. I might apply for entrance into our local university that offers such a program. I might. Things like more loans and oral exams (for acceptance) scare the heck out of me, to tell you the truth.

If only I had a job.

But then again, I was thanking the Lord this morning that I am available to take the kids to school and pick them up; that I'm available to take to them to appointments and not stress about how we're going to get them here or there; and that I look forward (for the most part) to planning meals and cleaning house and doing other mundane daily tasks.

This is the occasional pep talk that always works.

At any rate, I topped off the day with my pre-planned pumpkin spice latte and sat outside in a sticky, ninety-plus degree kind of southern, September day. I thoroughly enjoyed it. At home, my girl sat with me as I sorted through my dresser drawers and closet space (bonding time, she called it) and later served up supper to three teenage boys (of which only one belonged to me). The husband left to get parts for our tired van and I fixed a cup of decaf.

Like I said, a definitely better day.

And, lest I forget, remember our kitten dilemma from a few weeks ago? It turns out that the mama cat-  the cat that we thought was a stray all summer long and ruined our screens and filled our shed with fleas, actually belongs to our neighbor.

Doesn't take a genius to figure out where the kittens are tonight, does it?

Three Days Quiet

Upon entering the house today after school, the middle sniffs and says, "Smells like a mixture of clorox and bar-be-que."

He's very perceptive.
The house has been cleaned and supper is in the crock pot.
Things don't get much better than that.

Except for the fact that something doesn't feel right. I'm not sure what that something is, but it is sure to reveal itself. It's about time for it. We've had exactly three days with zero drama.

It's the calm before the storm.
How's that for positive thinking?
I can recognize the cycle, though.

Now lest you chastise me for being all gloom and doom, a recap of my life might be helpful. Nine hundred miles away from my family who have had no serious health emergencies lately; a husband who despises his job; same husband with the self-invited family guests for Easter; my unemployment status nearing its two year mark; three kids ranging in ages from practically-a-teenager to practically-an-adult; and one very moody cat who has been lately obsessed with squirrels.

Yep. Three quiet days?
No teacher emails. No bills unpaid.
No van in the transmission shop.

I wonder how many of you are screaming, "Stop!" "Knock on wood!" "Speak life!" I know all those, and I know you're right. But can we all just stop kidding ourselves for a brief moment?

Stuff happens. The earth quakes. People get sick. Kids made dumb decisions. Mechanical things fail. The cat will yak. Pure and simple, day-to-day life living with other people. All that chaotic stuff makes me appreciate the quiet all the more. And there's the good part right there. Appreciation. Without all the mess that sometimes clutters my life, I might never appreciate the times when the clutter is non-existent.

But I'm telling you, something is going on.
With one particular kid.
A mom just knows this kind of stuff.

And if I'm wrong?
Then it's a win-win.
I'll take another three days of quiet.