I'm In Love With A Tablet

Is it tacky to want to buy a gift for yourself? Not a new pair of shoes or a new dress, but a brand-spanking new $250 electronic gadget that would simply replace one you already have.

I'm in love with the Nook Tablet. Not the lesser memory version for $199 and not the Kindle Fire. I've researched, looked, and held. The tablet is for me.

The only one joining me on this cause is the youngest. She has my basic nook in her room so much anymore I can never use it when I want to anyway. In her eyes, it's a win-win situation.

I approached my husband last night during dinner. He didn't look impressed. I'm pretty sure I can change his mind, though. Or at least influence him in some way.

Just give me time. =)

An Update On Oly

You may remember our waiter from a while back, Oly (as in Holy Moly). Back in February, he shared with my husband and me his plans for a return trip to Mexico. Well, the husband and I went to our favorite sit-outside-on-the-patio Mexican place tonight and Oly was there. It was the first time we had seen him since that visit a few months ago.

He did make it to Mexico and he did make it past through the first check point. He got his papers legalized (as he put it) and got the proper papers he thought was necessary for the truck he was taking to his family near Acapulco (remember, I never could figure out the exact name he was saying). His plan was to spend his birthday with his family before heading back to the states.

The first check point was no problem. It was the second one that got him. He said the authorities there said his papers were falsified and proceeded to put him in jail and impound the vehicles he was transporting. He spent a few days behind bars before he was able to come up with (through many phone calls back to the states) enough money to get himself out of jail; $3,500.00 to be exact. The amount to get his vehicles released? And these are two, very old trucks, by the way... $10,000.00 American dollars. As he put it to my husband and I, "For that kind of money, I could buy a very nice house for my mother. I would not waste it on those old trucks." Another interesting twist? Even if he could pay the fine, legally (by Mexican law) the trucks would not have to be released to him.

He doesn't know why they think his papers were false. He thinks the person that sold him the trucks here in the U.S. "was not very honest," as he simply stated. He never did get to see his family, and he was on a bus out of Laredo, Texas, on the day of his birthday. He has since contacted a lawyer who advised him not to cross the border for at least 2-4 years. All he could do was shrug his shoulders and say, "That is how things are." And all this he said with a smile.

I'm telling you, that boy is one of the nicest young men we know. As the husband said, "If we won the lottery, I would give Oly the money to get his trucks out of hock and to bring his family here." I would have to agree.

Besides, I would love to meet this guy's mother.

Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled ~ John 14:1

This time last month I was resisting the urge to turn on the a/c (a urge which I eventually lost by the 16th or so). This month I have been fighting the coolness of the house in a steadfast refusal to turn back on the heat. I lost that battle today when I kicked on the fireplace. Crazy weather. It's not that it's cold outside. It might be seventy out right now, but the nights have been downright chilly. From what I hear from others across the country, this up-and-down weather pattern is the same everywhere. Oh well. It won't be long till we're roasting in one-hundred degree temps that won't let up. At least that's the normal way of summer. Who knows with this year. I use to say midwestern weather was unpredictable. Now I say it's that way in the south. I'm thinking maybe this craziness is the new normal for everywhere.

Today our community is hosting the funeral of a fifteen-year old who attended our kids' high school... he drowned on Easter Sunday. This morning I read in our local news of a nineteen-year old who was killed by a manufacturing accident as he began his work day. The middle told us a story of a six-year old that was killed in a freak accident while with his dad. The youngest recalled a news story she just read of a newborn being found alive in a hospital morgue. Evidently it's not just the weather that is crazy.

Oh, and today is my first day of cutting back on the coffee.

Craziness everywhere.

When You're Eighteen

I was standing in the middle of the card and invitation aisle at Hobby Lobby today when the thought occurred to me:  Is the oldest really fixing to graduate? Am I really the mom looking at stickers with caps and tassels and rolled-up diplomas? Is he really gonna pull this one off?

And that last comment is in no way a negative remark towards him, it just seems a little unreal. How can I be the mother of a practically grown man? He's eighteen, has a job, is a college applicant, and a soon-to-be registered voter. He even informed me one day not long ago that he could now legally buy cigarettes (not that he would ever do that, he assured me). Now if he bought a lottery ticket and won... hey, I wouldn't stand in his way. Thank goodness, though, he is very frugal with his money.

These kids. The husband and I were talking about them last night. How exhausting they are. How much fun they are. How lucky we are. Every day I watch the three of them leave for school, usually laughing or arguing depending on the day, and think to myself, "Bring them all back home, Lord." About five minutes after they left this morning, a cop or two went roaring by the house with sirens blaring. For a brief moment, my heart slowed down and my stomach grew weak. I am all too aware of how quickly things can change.

The middle can't seem to make it through a longboarding weekend without a new, bloody gash on his elbows or knees (add ankles and dirt bikes to that mix). The youngest can't seem to get enough of perfume and eye shadows and funky nail polish colors. And that oldest...

I do believe he's about ready to spread his wings and fly.

His dad was his age when he joined the Army.
I was his age when I thought I had life all figured out.

And I haven't figured it out yet. Have you?

Happy "I Am Finished" Day

Bachelor of Arts in History

It's official.

As of today, I am finished.

A four-year degree in under three years.

Two years and eight months to be exact.

Only six weeks off the entire time (two weeks each Christmas).

Go me.

The funny thing is, I'll be using that same clip art for the oldest's high school graduation in less than two months. Another funny thing? Now I'm actually thinking I could do a master's. I've got confidence galore.

At least 'till I start making those student loan payments.

Praying My Life Away

Lately I cannot get prayer out of my head.

I walk though the house praying.
I go to bed and pray before I go to sleep.
I wake up in the middle of the night with a prayer in my head.
I open my eyes in the morning thinking I better get to praying.

So this morning, in the wee hours before daylight, I thought about all this prayer... that either there is something going on that I cannot see urging me to pray, or that I am just highly suspicious and somewhat doubtful of good intentions. If you know me at all, the last part would be very believable, but I can't help but think a target has been put on my family and there is no way I'm about to sit by idle waiting for it all to unfold.

And so I pray. I start at the top and go down to the youngest just like my grandma would do. Which brings me to another question.

My grandma would always pray for me. I was number twelve on her list of thirteen grandchildren. Believe me, I've heard her and I've counted. She would start with her firstborn that died way too early, go on to her oldest child to the youngest, start with the top of the grandchildren and work her way down, and moved on to her great and great-great grandchildren. Now with those, I don't think she called but a few of them by name (she had a lot), but she always, always, always prayed for the all the babies.

Salvation. Protection. Wisdom to stop doing something stupid.

I thought of her and the times I would hear her pray at night and the example she set before me. Which raised that question.

Who is praying for me now?

A Repeat Of A Good Thing

Some things just cannot be repeated, but should be shared time and time and time again (and I'm not talking about those annoying inspirational sayings I find on facebook on any given day).

Did I just use "annoying" and "inspirational" in the same line?

Anyway, in thinking about Good Friday,  I went back to what I wrote last year. My thoughts have not changed. I cannot improve or alter what has already been written.

He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

And Good Friday is still one of my favorite days of the year.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

(originally written Friday, April 22, 2011)

Good, Good Friday

Restore to me the joy of Your salvation

 and uphold me with a willing spirit.

Psalm 51:12

I woke up in the wee hours of the morning thinking about my salvation, the bible my grandma gave me, and a cup of coffee. Of course, when I walked into the kitchen and realized it was, in fact, only 2:00 a.m., I decided maybe that cup of coffee should wait. Seeing as how there's no school tomorrow and the only alarm set belongs to my hard working man of a husband, I fully intend on sleeping in. I'll enjoy that coffee then.

I sit here, though, with a bible my grandma gave me. My mom's handwriting on the inside cover says 12-25-80. It does indeed show its age. My name embossed in gold on the front is just about worn off, threads can be seen sticking out on the spine, and the overall feel to it is just plain flimsy. There's post-it notes sticking out, cards about missionaries inside, and a random drawing the middle one made. Me and my bibles are a funny thing. I know I'm blessed to have so many; I don't take that for granted. Each one is special and each one hard to part with; in fact, I think I've only parted with one in my whole life and that was for my brother some time ago. Letting go of that bible was like letting go of me. It's personal. You want to know something about me, look in my bible.

(And if you don't like writing in a bible, then I'm afraid you might not like me. I write, highlight, underline, put squiggly marks... anything to help me remember something I know I need to remember. I use to think this was wrong until I saw my grandma do it. And we all know if Grandma did it, then it must be all right).

Anyway, my current bible is held together with duct tape. Tacky? Maybe. But replacing my Amplified would be like replacing my right arm. I'm just not ready to make that step.

And so I sit here thinking about bibles and my grandma and a time many years ago. The year of 1980 was a big one for me. I was ten (double digits, you know) and one Sunday night I followed my family to an altar in church. I remember crying because everyone else was crying and I remember repeating the words of a salvation prayer.

Yes, I believe Jesus died for my sins.

Yes, I know, in fact, I am a sinner.

Yes, I believe His Blood was shed for me.

Yes, I accept His salvation.

I didn't fully understand then what a beginning that would be. I certainly did not live a squeaky clean life. My teenage years are a blur. My family did not have a stellar church attendance record. I only went to church camp once and never had any desire to go back. There weren't many things in my life that were consistent because I tended to make everything complicated (and this has nothing to do with my parents, Dr. Psychologist), but there were three things that were always there:

My grandma.

My bible.

My salvation.

(Do you notice the common theme that always seems to run through my ramblings? My grandma is always there. Living on. Living forever. Living through me. I sure hope her reward is great).

My twenties came and I found myself in basic training crying out to the Lord once again. He was there. My thirties came and I found myself deep in a marriage with three little kids and I cried out to the Lord. He was there. Now just at the beginning of my fourth decade on this earth, I cry out to the Lord on any given day (teenagers, you know). He is there. Please don't take this wrong when I say Good Friday is probably my most favorite day out of the whole year. I know it's a somber day that we mark (as Christians) in that Jesus was so cruelly treated and beaten and crucified.

But if it were not for Good Friday, I would be lost. We all would be.

If it were not for Good Friday, there would be no Easter Sunday.

If it were not for Easter Sunday, we would have no hope.

I believe Jesus Christ was born of a virgin,

Was crucified on a cross for forgiveness of sins,

Resurrected on the third day,

And is indeed coming again.

My bible says it. It's highlighted, underlined, and surrounded by squiggly lines.

My grandma said it. I'm going to meet her in the clouds one day.

And that's all I need to know.

Have a good, Good Friday.