Sweet Homecoming

Yesterday at football practice Kennedy and I were going over the schedule for today, which I promised would be full of fun and excitement including the 99cents store, the McDonald's play land, and a half-day of school in honor of Dale's homecoming; a celebration before we pick him up since it would be late. As she turned to walk away I heard myself say, "Then we'll get Daddy, and I'll get my breath back..."

The last time we spent this long of a succession apart was right after I had Tre; he had a job in KC and I had a job in Burlington, we were both commuting from Emporia. He worked M-F and I left Friday night when he got home to go to work F-Su nights. It was agonizing. I don't recall how many weeks were lived like that, but we all cried every time he got back into the car to leave. Families just aren't designed to live together part-time. So you can imagine the strickening I felt in my chest when he got in the car three weeks ago and drove to the airport where he would be carried thousands of miles away from me.

If the truth be told, I thought it would be a good break, a breather, a nice reminder of what we have together. Little did I know how much more than that it would be. As much as I need him here to help juggle the details of our lives, I need him much, much more as a constant presence in my world. Everyday I watch the clock in anticipation of his homecoming on a normal workday. For three weeks I've been watching the clock, counting down the hours to his return. This is something that women in the world scoff at on the surface, this needy dependence on a man. But I think it links back to the curse where God made Eve's desire for her husband and him to rule over her. I have not studied this passage in depth, but I always thought that my intense desire is linked to that passage. It boggles my mind, as I have always been overtly independent, but eleven years in, I do not fare well without this man.

So today, the sweet face of God is shining on us because the countdown, while it's been agonizing, is almost over and I can almost get a full breath.

Succeed at this one thing

I don't know if you know this about me, you probably don't. But I have a new plan. Every so often I re-evaluate my life and configure a plan to set my feet straight and the wheels in motion for success in whatever it is that I'm failing at. Those things have been the same for the last, oh I don't know, all of my life: weight loss, organization, time management, devotions, kindness, anger management... you know, your run of the mill disappointments in a person.

The thing about this pregnancy is that I've never felt like I couldn't do it before. I would look at the test and laugh about the irony of the situation, always landing on the least opportune time in my life, and think, "Alright. Here we go!" This time I'm-- I'm in denial, I think. I stared at that little window on my bathroom cabinet waiting for the *not* to appear before the *pregnant* at any minute. And what's worse, I was putting clothes away the other day and decided I should double check the test, just to make sure I hadn't missed it, you know, the *not*, so I went back into the bathroom and peered into the little silver trash can. The trash can that I empty almost every day. The trash can that held the answer to my fate three weeks ago. To my surprise, it no longer offered me an opportunity to doubt. It was at that point that I realized things weren't quite right upstairs.

With the emotional trauma of the first weeks of school as a temporarily single parent, my world was spinning. On top of that, you know how high doses of surging hormones have a way of flipping you inside out at random intervals throughout the day. Every night I crawled into bed completely exhausted only to find my thoughts scattered and frantic. Every night I waded through them sobbing and then quiet and then reasonable and then trickles down my cheeks, trying hopelessly to sort it all out. It was tragic.

One night I tossed and turned for two hours before I finally cried out in desperation to God for help. I couldn't for the life of me imagine how He could help; He couldn't teach or make sandwiches or do dishes, but there had to be a way, right? So I begged, "God if there's any way you can help me out here, I really need it!" That's when I got out of bed and decided to order the few things I could do in the middle of the night. I made menus, wrote out a schedule, and prayed more, and this was my revelation. *Succeed at this one thing.* So simple; so doable.

The thing that steals my breath and stuffs me full of anxiety is not the laundry that spills out of the closet when I open the door, or the dishes piled up on the counter, or teaching twenty lessons a day. It's the fear of failure in these things. I should have done the dishes. I should have thrown the laundry in. I shouldn't have been come unglued when he dumped ketchup all over the refrigerator. I should have looked at her room after she cleaned it up all by herself. And the what ifs: What if they don't learn helping verbs? What if she stays mad this time instead of forgiving my meanness? What if someone shows up at the door when the house is a wreck? What if I really am just a bunch of smoke and mirrors? I shouldn't care, but I do. I want to be real, and I also want to be able to accomplish superhuman accomplishments because I CAN do all those things, if I really, really try.

What I've come to realize is: I can't. I just can't. There's only so much I can pile onto my plate before stuff starts falling off. So this new thing, my new plan, was revolutionary for me, more than freezing the milk and baking the bread. *Succeed at this one thing* My lifeline is Christ. As long as I fix my eyes on Him, I cannot fail. None of the things on that list matter as long as I am living and breathing and functioning in Christ, the author and finisher of my faith. Nothing. It settles every question about me and this life.

So, next time I call you and I am reeling from some hyper-emotional labor and drama, please, don't weaken me with pity. Point me to Christ, the only solid ground.

Thou madest us for Thyself, and our heart is restless until it repose in Thee.
-Augustine

Outback Girl

A few years ago, Dale and I were out on one of our notorious Thursday night date nights, eating dinner at Outback, one of my personal favorites, enjoying a lovely quiet dinner when something caught our attention. The sound was almost like white noise, a constant flow coming from a table across the isle and a few booths back. Casually we both took a turn looking to see who it was and saw a college-aged girl chattering away mindlessly to an obviously uninterested guy across from her. We exchanged a look and then snickered, going back to our lavish spread of delicacies. When we got in the car I said, "You think I'm like that girl, don't you?" He made some completely sarcastic comment about how he would never say anything of the sort and we laughed again at how completely self-consumed people can be in conversation.



This last couple of weeks, I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I'm Outback girl! I have been on the horn every recess, during lunch, after school, and after football practice. And not only that, last weekend, every time I called someone, someone else would beep in, giving me hope of just a few more minutes of conversation with someone above the age of, well, grade school. I have been a little starved for grown-up conversation. And I justify it by the fact that telephone conversation does not do justice what face-to-face conversation does for the soul, so I need MORE of it! And what's worse is, after the kids go to bed, it's really too late to call anyone since I live out here on the other side of the cosmos where we are still going long after the rest of the world has gone to bed, so I get on my email and write long, long messages to people that I may or may not have had a lengthy conversation with just hours ago. Why I think that I could possibly have anything more important to say that can't wait until the next day when I can call is beyond my comprehension, but I don't reason it out. I figure, if they don't want to read it, I'll never know. This is all moderately embarrassing for me and leads me to carefully contemplate the burden I must hoist upon my loving husband, who usually fills the brunt of this need for me single-handedly. Which brings me to my next point.



I read a poem on myspace the other night on Laura's page. I don't know her, I just found her through a friend's sister's page. I'd like to credit her for the poem, but I tweaked in a tiny bit and frankly, there was no signature or by-line, so who knows who wrote it. I was so inspired by this poem that I wanted to write a long post about it, but I was hesitant because I reacted to emotionally to it, which, by the way, is how I am reacting to EVERYTHING in creation these days, so I was nervous to lay my soul bare here on my blog. Now I've let it settle for a few days and feel confident I can post a little less, you know, bare-ly. Here it is:

In an effort to get people to look into each other's eyes more, the government has decided to allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day. When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup. I am adjusting well to the new way. Late at night, I call my long distance lover and proudly say I only used fifty-nine today. I saved the rest for you. When he doesn't respond, I know he's used up all his words so I slowly whisper I love you, thirty-two and a third times. After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.

OK, here's what inspired me about this. I am talking WAY TOO MUCH, just like I eat too much, spend too much, yell too much, sleep too much, and waste TOO MUCH TIME. I want to limit my words to a simple quota like this. I love it. IN AN EFFORT TO INCREASE EYE CONTACT... More like, in an effort to be more deliberate about everything you say, more careful to decide about each word you speak, more decisive about the things that go into and come out of your mouth... how about setting a simple boundary?

My friend Shanda, the great conversationalist, used to pause in the conversation before she'd speak. This proved to be extremely unsettling for me initially, so I'd fill the pause with nervous laughter or chatter just to close the gap in the conversation. What I soon came to find out was that she was thinking, composing a careful response to my question or previous statement. I learned to stop filling the gap with noise to allow her to think. Upon this new found discovery, I trained myself, still nervous, to look down and pretend to be busy with something until she responded. Finally I accepted this mannerism of hers and savored the still moment, knowing that whatever followed would be worth the wait.

We used to attend a cell group, eons ago, with a lot of people that had a lot to say and I loved every minute of it, because for a good portion of our time together, every time, we would laugh. The balance of that was that when things would get serious, we felt safe sharing our secrets and struggles with each other. It was a real kingdom connection, you know? And in that group, while a lot of people said a lot of good things, there was one guy that always sort of sat back and took everything in. He barely said a word during that soul searching time, but every once in a while he'd clear his throat right before he spoke and immediately a hush would fall over the group. It was almost like every person would lean in just a little to make sure they heard what he had to say. Now, I'll tell you the truth. He wasn't the smartest guy I've ever known, and some of the things he said were really basic, simple truths, but we all respected him because he CHOSE what he wanted to say, and when he wanted to say it. It gave him a real air of wisdom.

I rarely have something really good to say, and if I do, who would know for all the idiocy surrounding that good thing? This little poem, a few lines on a page, could be a real catalyst for change in my life. Or it could just be the next great idea that will last until Friday and I'll chuck it with the rest of them and start again on Monday. Love, Outback Girl.

Home Schooling

It's always difficult for me to repress the squirm when someone asks me why I home school. I'm not embarrassed about it; I don't feel like we are sub-par because of our choice to educate our children at our dining room table. It's not a sore subject for any of us usually. But when someone who is pro-public education corners me with that question, I find it difficult to answer honestly without coming across undesirably. So I just want to put it out there.

There is a moral code, a system of values, that used to fuel education in this country that has been lost, or rather, obliterated along the way, and replaced with political correctness and moral relativism. I'm not looking for forgiveness on the subject, I just want to set the record straight. We have been given a charge to raise our children in the fear and admonition of the Lord and will not take that lightly. That includes not entrusting them for the majority of their day to be molded and shaped by the thinking of someone we don't know, using a system we don't trust, teaching values and theories that are polar opposites of our core beliefs.


This raises eyebrows and tensions, I know. I am taking a risk in expressing my position on this topic because I have good friends that teach and good friends that send their kids to public schools. I am not poo-pooing you. This is about me and us and the whys from where we are on the issue. The time will come to send our children to school, be it private or public, depending on where we land and how they fare. But for now, we have not found a place lauded by those involved enough to consider for our children. It just hasn't happened.

With that said, let me tell you, it is O-VER-WHEL-MING! FOUR SYLLABLES!!!! This, my first year to teach four grades, and my first year of teaching with an on-line academy; it is blowing my hair back. I tend to be a little bit of an over-achiever; if you know me, you know this about me. I want my kids to learn every detail of every lesson that I teach. And if they don't, I want them to get the gist of it. And if they don't, I want them to at least look at me while I'm trying to sound really interesting to keep their attention. And if they don't, well that's where it gets a little fuzzy.

I am not very patient. I am not a great teacher. I am not highly intelligent. And I don't like to be blown off. These things work against me in ways that I have difficulty controlling. Which is why I am thankful for the flexibility of our circumstances, allowing me to drop what we're doing and initiate gym class or music or snack time or nap time or jumping jacks, whatever the situation calls for.

Please pray for me. I am also hormonal, and hungry, and exhausted after eight hours of sleep and mostly I just want to snuggle up on the couch and read stories to the children and call it a day. Can someone call the principle and ask if that's OK? Maybe not for all year, or even all semester, but maybe he could just cut me some slack for a week or two and then we'll, you know, be really good and work hard after that and stuff...

This was delivery day. They were so excited about all the things we would be studying and learning and doing that several times I heard them say, "This is just like Christmas!" and "This is the best school ever!"

It really is. They all have their own little idiosyncrasies and I wonder how they would be addressed in a traditional classroom setting. I also wonder how much they would miss as a result of those things, when here at home, I can hone in on them and correct them a little everyday because I can spot them so easily.

Nothing worth doing is ever without a price, I'm just a little broke in the required toll this week. It'll be better next week, especially if we get the go ahead on the story-time thing. That'll be great.

Funny Stuff

1. For a year or two years or three I have been blogging and every time I post something new I crack up at this. I type in *www.bs* and up comes my blog and I think, "Hahaha. B.S." And then I fight away the urge to write about how funny I think that is and tonight I'm pulling out all the stops.

2. I'm pregnant.

3. I called my little brother tonight. We haven't talked much in the past year or six; I mean, we talk when we can but we are both extremely busy so when we get a chance to talk and we are both really up for the conversation, we talk for a long time. Well tonight he was ready to shoot the breeze and when I told him, he laughed right out loud, a deep rolling belly laugh, which thrilled my little heart to bits. Because that's what I did. I laughed. Just like Sarah. Just like I did the last three times I got pregnant by surprise in what I deemed at the time the hardest stage of my life. I still laugh when I talk about it. And what I think is so great about my little brother is that he laughed with me. It was genuine and sincere and the way he really felt about the whole ordeal.

A lot of people say a lot of cruel things to us about having so many children. People with no wits say, "You know how that happens right?" People with no sense say, "What are you gonna do?" People with no heart say a polite congratulations and then talk about how crazy you are not to *protect against these kinds of things*.

I expected all of these responses because I've gotten all of them on more than one occasion and I'll tell you right now, I don't care how nuts you think I am, for some reason God keeps rewarding us over and over and over again with children. I don't know why, I don't think it's fair sometimes because there are much more capable mothers out there than me that would do anything to have just one more baby. I am a terrible mother sometimes. I blow my top; I say awful things to my kids sometimes. I can be mean and insensitive and irresponsible and ugly to them; I always try to make it right, but the guilt overwhelms me and I wonder why I was given such a precious gift when my clumsy selfish idiocy breaks them to bits with things that I say. But when I am reasonable and calm and at peace with my place, I feel honored to be given such a charge in this life.

I wrote an email today and while talking about our zero responsibilities in our local church, I almost said that we weren't sure what God wanted to do with us yet. HA! He moved us out here two thousand miles from home to do a secular job with kingdom work and six lives to nurture and carefully tend into adulthood and *I'm not sure what God wants to do with us yet...* It's so easy to lose sight of what is so foundational when it is so intangible. Thank You, God, for such an honor. Remind me to do the work with delicate precision.

Indecision

I don't like to be the one to decide. True, the nature of my being is to hope that someone will make the decision for me and it will be the one I would have made, but I like to dodge the responsibility of making that decision on my own if at all possible. That doesn't happen often. My days are packed, seriously, stocked-full of decisions carefully considered and made by yours truly. So at the end of the day, if I haven't spent the time the week before making menus, I don't want to decide what we should eat for dinner. Especially if we are going out. It's becoming more and more rare for us to go out for a meal, so I want it to be perfect, delicious, and cheap; all of which cannot co-exist, as we all know. So I'd rather just let you decide, drive me there, and I'll eat what is set before me and enjoy it knowing that it's what you wanted.

Which leads me to the reason I am becoming more and more scarce in this venue. I don't know what to write. I know people like to see pictures of our lives here, I know that because they tell me, and because it keeps our families connected. I also know that people want to read about something I've learned, if there's anything worth sharing, because it encourages my friends that don't have time to read, to at least think. But here where it gets foggy. I want to write about what's on my mind. I want to spill my guts. I want to tell all my secrets here in this quiet room, on this clean screen in front of me, where everything is still and feels safe. But then I remember there are scary blog stockers that might exloit me for my secrets and make a fool of me for sharing!!! But on the other hand, I think that on the whole, we all think about this stuff, these private thoughts, and maybe it would benefit someone to read them, to shed light on them, and maybe share wisdom. At least if you know I'm thinking about it, and you're thinking about it, either we're normal, or we're all nuts. Right? I think so.

I don't know what to write, and I don't have the intellectual fortitude this late at night to make that decision, so I'll just tell you what's on my mind.

I'm a little homesick; it's hard to be this far away. At first I thought it would be good to get on our feet and find ourselves apart, make friends, taste life away. Now I just want to go home. We have a great life here, don't get me wrong. And I am really trying to savor the riches of everything the midwest is not, but tonight I'm homesick. I have a lot of people around me that I could call friends. But there's no one here that would not be shocked out of their wits to find me at spontaneously at their front door with all my kids in tow. I miss being able to just show up, eat your food, use your bathroom, and let my kids run free on your property while I take a nap on your couch or spin my life like a soap opera for your entertainment. I miss that the most.

Everyday I am reminded of the fact that family is God's gift to mankind, and in this my friends, I am rich. He grows us in roots and branches, extensions of each other; we share blood. Then He says, "Now, you are born again. So he's your brother, and she's your sister. Here is your family, grafted in to My family tree. You share My blood." It's just incredible. And yet there is such a sense of insecurity in our ties. I'm not sure that we are of the same blood because church people can be so perplexing; so I cover this part of me, the unveiled true-blue me, and play friendly and polite, but only if you do. You know what I mean? Which is why I just want to go home. I know my family, inside and out, ups and downs, the good, the bad and the ugly. There's no hiding and no reason to hide. And I know you talk about me, *they all think we're nuts* but I don't care, these are the ABC's of me, baby! With you I'm home.

Puppy and the Troll

This poor dog, he really does have a lot of my attention temporarily. I heard some sniveling in the the kennel the other day while I was working in the kitchen and found Max locked in with a large stick and...

the resident princess. I laughed and laughed and laughed as I watched her push him back with, "No, puppy! No, puppy!" every time he tried to sneak by her. Like a loyal subject, he conceded and she would climb in almost on top of him and grab ahold of the mesh to shut the door.I stuck my head in to make sure he had enough space behind her so that he wouldn't come out wounded and she grabbed my face with both hands and pushed it out of the kennel, then shut the door, which spawned gales of laughter from me and then her too. I think she likes to be in charge of someone, since obviously, everyone here has some seniority over her. Unfortunately for the puppy, he doesn't know that he's not obligated to her antics

I don't know how long she played in there with him. Seriously, I was just glad she was into someone else's business and not dragging things out of the fridge or the cabinets or scribbling on something or following me around making demands in jibberish. If for no other reason than this, I am once again thankful for Maximus, the Wonder Pup.