Lamenting

For several years on or near this day I would be updating my facebook status with obnoxious boasting and heavy sexual innuendo from our annual trip to Ocean Isle.  sigh.  Not this year.  With Tim's new work schedule, finances, and the ever-challenging child care issue, it just wasn't to be.  (If you are relieved by this because our openness regarding sex makes you uncomfortable anyway, well... you should discontinue reading now.  Seriously.)

I've bounced around this last couple of weeks between being okay with it, crying like a baby over it, and just being really pissed off.  Back in December, we knew the odds were against us but we were optimistic and a little giddy because we were in the middle of a new christmas tradition --The "O-vent Calendar".  Yep, you read that correctly.  It was great and we were all tough like "no problem, this is the year we bring Ocean Isle home, right?  Damn, right!"  Fist bump.

I think our "we got this" bravado was exaggerated by hyper-orgasmic endorphins.  December rocked.  The new year held such potential.  We were going to stay so connected (not just sex) the absence of a four day escape, uninterrupted conversations, uninterrupted silence, and unchecked nakedness would be a tiny blip on the radar.  Did you see the coverage of the meteorite that exploded over Russia?  Yeah, that's more like it.

And it's not just the sex.  It's the tradition of it.  The drive, the smell of the ocean, the sound of waves breaking, eating in the bed and watching cable reality shows, drinking coffee on the beach, talking about life, talking about us, talking, talking, talking, and kissing.  Not peck on the lips on the way out to work or to the grocery store but like "holy hell, I remember you" kissing.

More sighing.  It'll be okay.  I know that.  It's not the end of the world.  I know that.  There are plenty of people out there who don't get romantic vacations every year.  I know that.  But I also know that I love my husband more than any person on this planet.  I know that we have to fight to stay on the same page in the midst of life and kids with special needs and issues.  I also know that the day I'm okay with NOT getting to have time away with Tim is the day something has gone terribly wrong.  Dealing with life as it is right now is absolutely necessary and we will deal with it.  Fist bump.  But admitting that we are missing it is real. 

 

2009

2010

2011

2012

 

You're Outta There!

I'm all about throwing things out.

Fingernail polish that is so dried the little shaker ball is stuck on one side of the bottle?  Out it goes.  That unmarked tupperware in the back of the fridge that doesn't resemble anything you've cooked in the last six months?  Tossed.  The prescription pain meds leftover from one of your kids random injuries which expired eleven months ago?  Uh, that probably has another good year or so but come 2014 -totally throwing it out.

I've seen coaches thrown out of sporting events, batters thrown out at home plate, and footballs thrown out of bounds.  There are other things I totally support throwing out like junk mail, suggestions, even bad ideas like:

"Hey wouldn't it be cool to be the millionth person to jump off a bridge over a dry river bed on the same bungee cord as the 999,999 people before me?"

No.  Crap no!  Throw that out.  Way out!

At the risk of over-overstating my point, I had no qualms with throwing things out...until...

This past Wednesday was moving along like most typical days.  I remember getting the kids off to school.  I remember having a quick lunch with Tim and then sending him off for a doctor's appointment on the other side of town.  I remember putting Justus down for a nap and beginning to straighten the house.

I do NOT remember at any point that day, even for a smidgen of a second, thinking "Today, I should like to throw out my back."  Nope.  Never thought it.  Who would?  It's crazy.

And while "I threw my back out" may be the most easily understood description of my plight to the general public, I take issue with its accuracy level and would prefer to offer my own personal interpretation of what happened--

At 2:02 PM, Wednesday, January 16th, my lower back packed her bags, smacked a "Dear John" letter on the table, sucker punched me on the way out, and left me writhing on the floor like a wounded animal.

The letter read as follows:

Dear John,
(I don't know why my back calls me John when she knows my name is Amie. shrug)
I'm done.  I'm done with your poor lifting technique, putting all the pressure on me instead of those flabby thighs of yours, and your awkward cross reaching and lack of support from your weak, flabby core.  You may be all into self-acceptance these days but who do think is carting around that extra twenty pounds on your flabby behind?  That's right.  Me.  And I'm done.

Out,
Your Back

I grappled with the reality of it all for an hour and a half on the cold hardwood floor while waiting for my middle schooler to get home and help me to the couch.  What could I say to my back except "you're right" and "I'm sorry" and "I find your use of the word 'flabby' both harsh and excessive"?  Dang.

I've been wooing my back uh...back with long stints on a heating pad, lots of pillows tucked under strategic locations, and some slow, careful stretches.  I feel the evidence of her gradual return but realize that it may take time to get a full commitment out of her.  That's okay as long as she knows it was never my intention to "throw her out".

In the meantime, I'm glad I didn't throw out those expired pain meds. =)

Naked, New Year, Necking

Naked Parenting

After 13 years of parenting I think it's safe to say that we have tried every form of discipline at one time or another.  Spanking, time-out, loss of privileges, lecturing, grounding, screaming and cursing like a raving lunatic.  Yep.  All of it.

Now we are in the land of teenagers and all bets are off!  Attitudes abound, hormones surge, and their poor underdeveloped brains are doing all they can to hold on.  And mom is doing all she can to allow them ensure they survive it.

Cue moment of genius.

A few days ago, I was sharing with Tim a dream I'd had in which I was stark naked under a sky full of stars and utterly at peace with the world.  (The fact that I was walking through the Wake Forest library parking lot makes it kinda weird but...what?  It was already weird?  Oh.)  Anyway, I was suddenly aware that the boisterous bubbling of rough-housing and tom-foolery previously emanating from the living room had dropped to a deafening silence.  The older kids were staring at me in absolute horror, instantly subdued by the mere mention of my unhidden form.

A surge of power tingled in my gut as their weakness was revealed.  Ah, but how to exploit this fear to my advantage? (picture narrowing of eyes and rubbing of hands in a sinister way)  At breakfast, I announced my plan:

"The next time I get any crap from you people -eye-rolling, back-talking, sorry attitudes, disrespect or disobedience of any kind- I will immediately begin removing articles of clothing.  That's right.  The better behaved you are the more covered I will remain.  The worse behaved you are and let's just say you better hope I'm dressing in layers these days or you will suffer the consequences both now and in your nightmares for years to come."

How's it working?  Well, Tim, for one, admits this is the first time ever that he's actually hoping for disobedient children.  It doesn't work on the littles, of course, because they have no sense of shame over nakedness.  Mine, theirs, anyones.  Oh, and Nathan still talks back, he just does it with his eyes closed.  So, it's not fool-proof but one must embrace a bit of foolishness when parenting anyway, right? =)

New Year

I didn't make a list of New Year's resolutions. The word resolve has negative connotation for me. Maybe not for you but for me. The things in my life that fall under "resolve" are typically things I've decided are unchangeable, unfixable, unmovable. I'm resolved to deal with (fill in the blank with some crappy situation). Resolutions feel more about what must be given up/dealt with for the next year. I did make a list though. I think of it more as a list of reminders than resolutions. My list of reminders is about the things I want to gear up for in the next year. Things I want to remember to do or remember to stop doing because they are important or necessary for my own good, for my own health, for my own pleasure. Here are a few of them.

I'm reminding myself to

• fall asleep reading a good book
• never just drink coffee -always enjoy it!
• get 5 stars on every Just Dance song
• "O" often (with Tim whenever possible ;-))

I'm reminding myself to stop

• measuring myself by what I can't do
• holding on to old relationships and old wounds
• feeling guilty/embarrassed for being poor

Did you make a list?  Tell me about it.

Necking (aka the psychology of hair)

No, no, it's not what you think.
I cut my hair.  Actually, I've been cutting my hair for about four months now.  I wanted drastic change.  Drastic came in several stages.  It's short.  Very short.  Short enough that I can feel the cold wind tingling on the back of my  neck and that Tim has to shave the little baby scragglies for me.

A friend asked "Is this the first time you've had it this short?" and "do you feel different?"  The easy answers are no and yes.  But the real answer is not that simple.  I had my hair cut (meaning paid someone to do it) this short once before. (not counting childhood)  It was 1995.  Tim and I had been married about a year.  I believe there are only two pictures in existence.  I hated it.  Ha-ted-it!  I cried almost every night for weeks because I looked like a boy.

Fast forward 18 years to me in my bathroom hacking away at my own hair and loving it.  Lov-ing-it!  Why such a contrast?  Because I had no idea who I was back then.  I had no idea that the essence of femininity, beauty, confidence, sexuality were not isolated by social norms, celebrity glam magazines, or other people's expectations. 

It also has a lot to do with this woman whom I've never met and her honest account of her dreads-to-shaved head journey.  And this woman who many already know is one of my personal heroes for her amazing, no b.s., what you see is what you get music, style, life.  (If you missed her performance at the American Music Awards, oh my crapness, you must youtube it.)

It's about understanding that whatever beauty I posses only exists if I believe it, see it, accept it.  If you think I'm beautiful, well, that's nice.  If you do not think I'm beautiful, well, that's nice, too, but either way it's just not about you.  The only person on this planet who truly has to be satisfied with me is me; even on the days when there are bags under my eyes or the scale is telling me that second (or third) piece of cheesecake was a bad idea or the image in the mirror doesn't look anything like a Victoria Secret model.  And seriously, that kind of self-acceptance is hard-enough.  Who the hell has energy to care what everyone else thinks?

So, here is the summary:  I do not feel different because I cut my hair.  I cut my hair because I feel different.  And I love it!

Jingle Janglin'

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Stranger than Fiction

So, last night Tim and I were in bed talking after watching a television show that included several well-endowed women.  This is the conversation that ensued:

Me:  I can be bosomy.  If you pinch and tape and hoist enough.

Tim:  (seemingly unconvinced) Sure.

Me:  Well, it's just lucky for you that I've gained weight over the years.  I'm almost twice as bosomy as I was when we got married.

Tim:  (reaches over and rubs my stomach)  That's true.  You've grown in several ways since we were first married.

Me:  (gasping)  You can NOT rub my belly when you say that!

Tim:  I'm just saying... well...you take the good, you take the bad, you take 'em both and there you have...

Me: (interrupting) The fat girl wife?  The fat girl wife! 

Both of us are laughing as Tim continues.

Tim:  There's a time you gotta go and show you're growing, now you know...

Me: that you're the fat girl wife.  The fat girl wife.


A new pilot could be in the works.  =)

And please, ladies who are kind and loving and naturally defensive of each other --there's no need to rebuke my husband.  He always worries about the public jerk-o-meter when I post these things.  I'm not saying it would be good for everyone but a relationship built on unconditional love and mutual degradation works for us.  The former allows for the latter quite nicely and holy crap do we laugh a lot because of it!

A Little PEEved

Okay.  I have held my tongue as long as I can.

There is a very serious women's health issue which must be addressed.

I have a strong opinion on the matter.  You're shocked.  I know.

Here's the deal, I understand that many will oppose my view.  I understand that many of you have held your
belief for years, maybe even a lifetime, and have difficulty entertaining any other option.  I understand that for some of you it is an issue of personal experience.  I also understand that many of you hold your view based on the input of your own mother or some other woman whom you hold in high esteem.  I am taking all of that into consideration when I say...




PLEASE!  FOR CRYING OUT LOUD JUST SIT ON THE DANG PUBLIC RESTROOM TOILET ALREADY!



Look, I get it!  Truly, I do.  No doubt my mom nursed many a sore back having hoisted me awkwardly over a Penney's Outlet toilet seat while warning in a strained voice "Don't touch anything!"  And I tried to maintain due diligence as a young woman; hovering in such unnatural form and hoping the angle of my precarious squat would provide the urine stream a proper trajectory without, god forbid, overshooting right into the back of my own jeans.

Then gaining a few (ahem) pounds over the years without the foresight to simultaneously build upper body strength in preparation only proved to exacerbate the problem.  And yes, I admit it.  I have used the handicap bathroom simply for the value of the hand rail.  But I did so in protest against my own conscience while tortured by the possibility that an actual handicapped person could enter at any moment and have to wait for me to walk, able-bodied, out of their stall.  ugh.

But there was a day some 10 odd years ago that saved me.  The day of my release.  Dr. Oz (back  on his Oprah cameo days) said that it was okay to sit on the toilet seat.  Specifically, he said that any person with an uncompromised immune system can sit on a public toilet seat and not incur any great harm.  It's all the things you touch with your hands in the bathroom that will get you, not the non-porous donut ring upon which you set yourself.

And so began my life of bathroom freedom.  I sit.  Yes, ladies.  I do.  Full on contact -donut ring to derriere.  I am unafraid.  EXCEPT for one small thing and this is where all of you who choose to hover your haunches come in.  (And where I, for no logical reason break into prose.)

If you must squat, then please clean the pot.
For no one, I dare quibble
Wants to sit in your dribble!

Don't misunderstand me.  There are convenience store restrooms between here and my home town of Atlanta, GA that are lucky I don't line my kids up in the middle of the potato chip aisle and yell "Aim high!" because the funk and filth are too much for even me.  But in most reasonably managed establishments it's really not that bad.

Having patronized one such establishment in recent months, I have had more than enough opportunity and trust me, MORE than enough cause to address this situation.  I know how hard it can be to get centered especially if you are fighting quivering thighs but seriously, why does your fear of toilet seats have to haunt the next occupant?  Maybe it was little Johnny and he just barely makes it over the rim as it is.  So be it but you're standing right there.  You know he missed.  You're going to wash your hands and follow it up with antibacterial hand gel anyway so just give it wipe.  That's all I'm asking. 

Ladies, I respect your right to choose.  But please, please, for those of us who aren't so cushy with our tushy, don't let your hyper hiney hygienics leave the rest of us singing with the Soggy Bottom Boys.

Diatribe over.  =)

To the Polls!

Christians in NC should vote for Amendment One on Tuesday.  Or so I'm told.

NC Amendment 1, Section 6 reads in part:


"Marriage between one man and one woman is the only domestic legal union that shall be valid or recognized in this State."

Okay.  Why?

Well, Genesis 1:27, Leviticus 18:22, and Romans 1:26-28 for starters.

Ah then.  Because the Bible says so, right?

Right.

Indeed it does.  What else does the Bible say?  Like... "the works of the sinful nature are obvious: sexual immorality..." Galatians 5:19 or "Flee sexual immorality." 1 Corinthians 6:18 or "abstain from sexual immorality..." 1 Thessalonians 4:3. 

Seems clear enough.  If "sexual immorality" includes anything apart from sex between a husband and wife then that pretty much covers it all.  Sooooo....

where is it?  The other amendment?  The other amendments?  You know, the ones that say:

"It is prohibited for any man or woman to participate in consensual sexual activity while cohabitating apart from marriage, as defined by Amendment One, section 6."

What about the one that says:

"Any teenagers found to be sexually active prior to marriage, as defined by Amendment One, section 6, shall no longer be eligible for public education and must immediately be withdrawn from any public institutes of learning."

What?  You haven't seen these? Haven't signed the petitions?  Haven't bought the t-shirt?  Hmmmm.  Neither have I.  But I'm awfully curious as to why not. 

If conservative Christians are, as they proport to be doing, protecting God's biblical definition of marriage and thereby speaking on His behalf at the polls, then why aren't we formulating, marketing, and pushing through legislation to protect God's biblical sensitivities regarding ALL sexual acts?  Why, in heaven's name, stop with a marriage amendment?

Come on Amie, grace has to supercede law at SOME point.

Ah yes, His grace is sufficient.  Our constitution?  Not so much, I guess.

Well, you can't expect the democratic government of a free and richly diverse people such as America to legislate every point of Christian morality.  That would be legalism at its worst and set us back 200 years to a pre-revolutionary state church existence and would make it nearly impossible to follow Christ's command to show love given the extremity of the law, constant mutual suspicion and condemnation, as well as the likelihood that none could escape its judgments thanks to that darned "all have sinned" thing. 

Oh, how I love when these conversations go right where I want them to. ;-)  You are right.  And what's more it would be impossible because the line of morality among Christians is as variant as the day is long and is most often drawn just inside of one's own level of comfort.

So INSTEAD ---

Perhaps we should remember that the Constitution of the United States is not Scripture.  And that there may be evidences of MANY sacred writings from MANY cultures and belief systems reflected in its content.  But rights should never have been, and should never again be afforded us by our common religion, or common race, or common gender, or common sexuality--but by our common humanity.

Instead, ask yourself "why do we draw the line here and not there?"  "Here" being Amendment One and "there" being the Nth degree of the biblical standard.  And if, in fact, you're not willing to push the line "there" then you have no choice but to unwrap the cause from its spiritual packaging with Bible-verse-quoting ribbons and bows and see that what you are left with is hypocrisy and discrimination.  Stop dressing it up and putting God's name on the gift tag.

Randomness

I never know which blog to blog under.  (SERIOUSLY a first-world problem)  If I talk about family then it should be Sexton Crew but if I mention the hood maybe it should be Launch 150.  Blah.  I'll just hope you don't mind blog-hopping too much and stop stressing about where to share the randomness of our lives.  Occasions such as this morning when Bella came into my bedroom and shouted, "Mom!  Smell my tits!"

Gulp.  My brain went into rapid flip mode, like a card shark shuffling the deck, searching for a reasonable explanation.  Thankfully, I drew an Ace.  The Ace being remembering that Bella has been begging for deodorant lately.

"Bella, do you mean armpits?"  Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes!

"Oh yeah, mom.  Oops.  Not tits.  Armpit."

Oops indeed.  "Bella, please promise you will never, ever again ask someone to smell your tits, okay?"
She complied.  After silly giggling.  The silly giggling concerns me.


Farm life randomness:  We are finally milking the goats.  It's not a perfect science.  They have opinions and attitudes and ridiculously strong hind legs.  I decided to start wearing my "Bailey's Coffee Creamer" apron while milking.  I thought it might inspire them if they caught sight of the competition.  It didn't.  I would say we're working on our technique and they are working on their patience.  Hopefully, that will translate into an abundance of creamy wonderfulness before long.


Rad randomness:  We see progress.  In ourselves.  In Mamoune.  However, we now also see that a few weeks of what looks like a "normal" kid doesn't mean you have a "normal" kid and doesn't mean that your RAD kid can be parented like a "normal" kid.  Failure to recognize this can lead to bad things.  Like finding yourself being body slammed into the bathroom floor and donning some pretty nasty bruises.  I got the full brunt of this particular eruption. 

In retrospect I can see that the steam was rising and it could have been averted.  And while it's not okay and there is much mending to do...I believe it will be even longer before the next episode because of the knowledge I gained.  The bruises will heal.  I am just thankful for the tools I have been given by our therapy so that my heart was not so badly bruised this time and we'll move on from here.  No ground lost.  Just a rest stop.

Normal is way overrated anyway.  And on that note, I will close with this slightly less random thought...

I love Pink. Not the color. The person.


WHAT?!!! Amie, you do NOT mean the gangster-punk-rocker with ever-evolving hair who is raw and brash and has the nerve to write songs that mention things like drinking, fighting, and masturbation and even has a song with the F-bomb right there in the title... do you?

Yep. That's the one. Love her!

Tim and I recently watched the video to her Grammy-nominated song "Perfect". (The clean title and version of "F#%*ing Perfect") It is powerful. It is convicting. It is moving. I showed it to my daughter. My attachment disorder, fit-throwing, body changing every day, hormonal, pre-teen, out of control, body slamming, effin' perfect daughter.  Maybe you should show it to yours, too.

Reality is a Two-faced (CENSORED)!

This morning, in the middle of home schooling these five kiddos, Tim hugged me and said, "Last night I was with a beautiful woman.  She was wearing a silky, shimmery blue night gown and had on sexy makeup.  You don't look anything like her.  I think I may have accidentally cheated on you."

Ain't that the way life goes?  Sometimes you get to be the hot mama with deep blue eye shadow and maroon-stained lips.  But then the clock strikes midnight and you're just the pony-tailed girl in a sweatsuit and cotton undies.  sigh.  As I pondered this double-sided existence, I was reminded of the musical "Into the Woods".  In our high school performance of it, Tim was "The Baker" and I was "Rapunzel" his estranged sister.  Estranged meaning locked in a doorless tower.  The play is an amazing intertwining of several classic fairy tales and is quite entertaining, especially if you see the one with the anatomically correct Big Bad Wolf costume.  'nuff said.

Anyway, there is a scene in the play in which the Baker's wife and Prince Charming rendezvous in the woods, after which his charm seems to run short and she's left pondering the void between a passionate love affair (an "And") and a mundane life in the bakery (the "Or").

"Why not both instead, there's the answer if you're clever;
Have a child for warmth, and a baker for bread, and a prince for...whatever!"

In the end, she realizes that the tension between the two realities is a necessary part of relationship.  Or at least that's my interpretation of what she realizes.  She also gets stomped on by a giant like the no-good-cheater she is but that's beside the point.

"Just remembering you've had an "and" when you're back to "or",
Makes the "or" mean more than it did before."

So, reality IS a two-faced (CENSORED)!  No sense fighting it.  See it for what it is and now... go have an "AND" with your hubby!   Oh, and keep away from beanstalks.  It's just best for everybody that way.

Halloween in Review

Every year I acknowledge that there are many controversial opinions out there regarding Halloween.  Every year I remind everyone that I am not offering judgement on your position nor accepting comments that judge ours.  And this year is no different.  Take it or leave it, here's how the 31st of October passed for the Sexton Crew:

I love the dressing up part.  I usually love participating in the dressing up but this year it just didn't work out.  I mostly love the challenge of outfitting my kiddos WITHOUT spending tons of money on pre-fab costuming.  After a look around the house and a quick trip to the thrift store, we were rolling.

I found this strange item in the $1.29 bin at GoodWill.  I had no idea what we would do with it but there were some obvious thoughts and soon enough...

one ginormous snake was crafted and became the centerpiece...





for Isaiah's "jungle explorer" costume.

Nathan loves and already has all things army so that's easy enough.

Mamoune got this snow queen dress last Christmas (75% off post-Halloween sale) so we simply added the Dollar store Christmas ornament earrings and then rubber banded the snowflake ornament to a gold headband for the crown.  She was all glitz and glitter which made her quite happy!  And that left the little people.

 

Bella Bo Peep required a $4.00 Princess costume from GW, one of Mamoune's old flower girl dresses worn underneath for "poof effect" and an infant hat stitched in half with ribbon to tie it on.  We decided a four year old with a shepherd's staff could be dangerous for all involved but "lamby" made for a great prop.  And lastly, all was right in the world because...



Sheriff Justus was on patrol.  Take one cow patterned pillow that two pre-schoolers have pulled all the stuffing out of and give it three snips and some stitching and you've got a perfect "Sheriff Woody" vest.  His sister's bandanna, a dollar store hat, and aluminum star and he was ready to round up some sugar-hyped outlaws.

I spent a total of $16.00 on five costumes.  Not bad.  So, costumes -success!  Candy?  Fail.  Major fail.  The rain was the first glitch.  It seemed a complete waste to get all these guys dressed up and then layer them with rain coats and umbrellas.  So, we joined some friends at the mall knowing it would be packed but at least it would be dry.  Dry, crowded, and candy-less.  Yep.  It was a total disappointment.  We walked around and sadly observed the "sorry, we ran out of candy" signs taped to countless store windows.  By 7:30, our tally looked a bit like this:

      3 hours making costumes

      1 hour dressing kids in costumes

     45 minutes driving to, unloading, parking, and getting into the mall

 +   1 hour walking around the mall

     2 pieces of candy per child

     1 spider ring

     5 "this is stupid"

     3 "when are we leaving?"

     2 "what the heck do we do now?" parents

In some small way, we (Tim and Amie) were relieved.  Every year they get bags of candy and they obsess to the point of conflict and we end up fighting and having to ration the candy before eventually just trashing it sometime around January 15th.  No candy -no conflict.  But the tiny part of us that understands our kid's excitement over all things chocolate and sugary felt bad for them.  So... we left the mall, empty target bags in tow, and made a slight detour through the KrispyKreme drive-thru then headed home to watch "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" and stuff ourselves on glazed donuts.

With no masses of candy to idolize and therefore hopefully only one sugar-hype/crash related day of meltdowns and attitudes, I'm thinking we may have found our new Halloween tradition!



Faithfulness

The following is a spoken word that I wrote about a year ago.  At that time, Justus was in the hospital hooked up to all kinds of crazy contraptions and I was surviving on fumes of adrenaline and anxiety.  I haven't posted it before this time because I was never sure I could handle the comments it may evoke.  It is as honest, unfluffy, and straightforward as I've ever been.  I'm still not sure I'm ready for how some of you may respond.  But I have a friend who has found herself in the same dark place and I am posting it for her and for anyone else who has ever questioned God and are willing to admit it.

Doubt
Amie Sexton  November 2010

If I stand here bare-boned in naked truth
I find that I'm asking where's the proof?
The apparent evidence lacking
has me back-tracking
to a place where doubt and skepticism take root.

What are the contradictions;
the implications?
Is it that or
is it simply a matter
of time, will, sovereignty
and other dimensions my eyes can’t see?

If I ask You to heal now and You don't
or You won't
are You less faithful for your hesitation?
Or do I judge You more faithful having endured the situation?
Dare I judge you at all?
Judge not lest judgement fall.

But what of this faith that moves mountains
or drives fountains up from rolling seas,
letting thousands cross on sandy ground
while I drown in my own sea of sand sinking quick?
Do tests of faith strengthen hope
or does hope deferred make the heart sick?

When Jesus prayed in dismay, "Let this cup pass from me"
was His obedience too great
or was His faith just too weak?
If I ask will I receive?
How can I believe, if I must submit
all the while admit that He answers as He pleases?
Or has He deceived us?

"Heresy!" cries the Pharisee.
You whose eyebrows are raised in disgrace
scowling face.
"How could she?  Why would she
say such a thing?
As though God is obligated to explain."

But these questions in my mind
long to be satisfied
and even this temptation to deny
doesn't surprise or compromise
the love He bestows since
He already knows the anxiety that lies inside of me
as I strive to walk the Gospel in the midst of this reality:

That pain remains the same
and the rain is unchanged
falling on the just and the unjust
but must I be crazy
to think that maybe
I could access special favor
having put my trust in this Savior?

If a father knows how to give good gifts to his own
and when his child asks for bread will not give him a stone
How much more does our Father in heaven,
the Father of lights, know how to give us...

Wait.
How does God define "good"?

Good is good, right?
A word with a definition,
a meaning that creates expectation,
the anticipation of something...well...good.

But is a child dying,
parents crying, trying to understand
what's coming from His hand good?

A million people in an earthquake
that shakes and breaks and devastates
their lives already in a precarious state;
is that good?

Cars crash, thieves dash
down dark alleyways
to easy escapes;
Innocent falling prey
to scams and schemes
Wall Street exploiting dreams
with its greed;
A child's soul bleeds under the invasion
of a pedophiles' touch.
It's all too much.
And sooner or later, we all will die
So, why shouldn't I cry
"GOD, IS THIS GOOD?!"



I am still in the process of answering some of my own questions and maybe someday I'll share that post with you as well.  But let's face it  --most of them will remain unresolved because only God and the understanding that will come in His presence someday can offer a complete answer.  As I shared with my precious, struggling friend: my faith may be a fragile, shaken thing at times but even when I question, doubt, curse, wander...He has never cast me away.  And that may be the greatest evidence of His faithfulness after all. 

Two of a Kind

Eleven days ago, my parents pulled away from our house with camper trailing and THREE grand kids in tow.  We were thankful for a chance to be a small family.  The medium people have had a fun-filled, sugar-filled, entertainment-filled, doting grandparents-filled vacation from the 'hood.  Tomorrow they return.

One would think that down-sizing from five children to two would be a breath of fresh air and a time of rest and relaxation.  One would be wrong.  We have learned these past two weeks that parenting two pre-schoolers is every bit as hard as parenting five kids all together.  I should say RE-learned.  We did it once before when the boys were 4 and 2 but WE were oh, so much younger then.

There have been moments we lament not having more one-on-one time with each of our kids.  One-on-one time is hugely overrated.  This leveling of kid to parent ratios has meant that the 75,000 touches, tugs, pulls, jumps, and pinches normally spread between six other people have been fielded by only two.  The 642,984 requests for candy, apples, chocolate, water, orange juice, bicycles, toys, books, tv, attention to silliness, and general whining have also been divided fairly equally between the two of us.  We are worn slap out.

Justus is climbing on my back right this minute making gun noises in my ear.  I am his mom and I love him dearly.  He is the most precious little man on the planet and his smile lights up my heart.  Tomorrow night, I will pawn him off on his big brother and breathe a sigh of relief.

I have missed our three oldest but I honestly don't think the extent of how much I've missed them will sink in until I see them being shadowed relentlessly by their young, needy, active siblings.  I will think to myself that was me last week and I will be thankful for a big family!

;-)

Home School Highlights

I feel certain there is a manual that makes it irrefutably clear that mockery does horrible things to children and that parents who engage in such activity should prepare to pay mega bucks for therapy. Fortunately, there are blogs like this that our children could care less about and aren't likely to read until they are in their twenties at which point the damage is done so...

Mamoune had a spelling test the other day. The word was "were." She spelled it w-h-e-r-e. We corrected the mistake and discussed the difference between the two words in meaning and pronunciation. Rocket science? Nope. Just spelling. Her next step was to write a sentence using this word. She wrote:

Were are you going?

--which I read and promptly responded with: "Were are you from, girl? Suthern Haiti?" (deposit $25 into the therapy account now)

Later I shared this incident with Tim. He had a I Can Top That story for me.

Isaiah's spelling word that same day had been wants: w-a-n-t-s just to be clear. His sentence for this word?

Wants upon a time.

:-)

Lacking

I've read the story of the "rich young ruler" (Matthew 19, Mark 10, Luke 18) many times and heard just as many sermons, devotions, or bible studies on this story. But at 5:30 this morning when a certain 2 year old's need for water could not possibly wait for sunrise -this is where my brain went and my pondering of it.


Here's a quick summary for any who are unfamiliar with this passage. Jesus is walking through town doing His thing when this rich dude approaches and says, "Hey you seem like a great guy. How can I get in on this?" Jesus takes a quick second to reference His own deity in a wonderfully sarcastic way that must have been accompanied by a mischievous grin before taking the question adding a healthy dose of reality, giving it a good shake and then dumping it back on the guys head. "You know the law." In other words...based on all your knowledge of Scripture shouldn't you already be "in on this"? The guy still doesn't get it so Jesus gets to the point, "You are lacking one thing. Sell your stuff, all of it, and give the money to the poor then follow me."


He doesn't head to the market. He doesn't run to the local soup kitchen. He doesn't follow Jesus. He leaves. Sad but still rich.


At this point in the sermon most pastors will take great care to point out that obviously Jesus didn't really mean for the man to sell all his possessions and we can quickly and confidently dismiss any such racical application. And while I take great issue with this statement I will not -because it is not necessary for this particular post- even harp on it. Though I could. Seriously. Like a fat-bellied-bare-bottomed-flying-cherub kind of harping. But I won't.

So, the typical focus of teaching is on this rich guy's idolatry problem. He loved his stuff too much. He wanted his stuff too much. He idolized his stuff. At which point, we would be encouraged to consider the idols in our hearts and surrender them accordingly. Not a bad plan. Not bad teaching.

Problem is Jesus never addressed it this way. "One thing you still lack..." Jesus did not accuse the rich guy of loving his stuff too much. He accused him of loving others too little. This man essentially claimed to have kept all the commandments from his youth but he lacked the willingness to help the poor. He lacked the neighbor love and compassion that Jesus lived daily -healing the broken and dying, touching the sick and diseased, and restoring community to the outcast. He wasn't merely too focused on loving his possessions, he was not focused enough on loving others.

"If I can speak with the tongues of men and angels but have not love I am a resounding gong and clanging cymbal." (1 Cor 13:1) "There is still one thing you lack..."


Okay, okay but whether he was lacking love for His neighbor or idolizing himself --isn't it basically the same thing?


Well, yes and no. If I look at my neighbors through the filter of what they appear to idolize I am tempted to pat myself on the back and strut around in a self-righteous garb. But twisting it the way Jesus did finds me on much more common ground with them. For example, I could say that my friend who's shack up with her boyfriend and knows she needs to change it but doesn't loves and depends on the guy too much. I don't have that idol. We are different. I'm not like her.

But what if I see that my friend hasn't changed the situation because she lacks trust in God to handle the fallout; because she's afraid and lacks courage? The stone I held poised for attack suddenly crumbles to a grain of sand. I know what it means to lack trust. To lack courage. To be afraid despite God's best promises. We are same. I'm a lot like her.

See the difference?

So, thanks to an early wake-up call and a fresh look at a familiar story, I know it will still be important and necessary to clear out some idols but it will be equally important to search myself for those things that are lacking.

Shout Out to Wake Forest WalMart

I know, I know...

I've offered many less than rave reviews on this giant of all stuff marts. And yes, I typically avoid the chaos within its walls at all costs. But for today I am singing a different tune. Here's why.

Mamoune and I set out this afternoon to run a few errands. Bank -check. Pick up M's new glasses -check. Walmart -and that's where it all went south. To say that Mamoune has vision issues is an understatement. She has a seriously strong prescription and having been without glasses for an absurd amount of time ('nother story, 'nother time) we were warned that she may feel a little woozy for a day or two while her eyes adjusted.

After a few minutes of shopping, she mentioned that she felt a little dizzy. Not a plea for help. Not really even a complaint. Just a mention. No biggie. Another ten minutes in and she stops and drops her head with her hands resting on her knees. "I don't feel so good." she says. I go through the range of possibilities...are you still dizzy, do you need to throw up, need to poop, etc. We decide to head to check-out and to get her positioned on a nice bench near the ladies room.

I point her toward the desired location and she immediately takes two steps the wrong direction. I pulled her back and getting a good look at her face, I knew this wasn't going to end well. She was weaving side to side and not really locking eyes with me so I pulled her closer.

Now, as I confessed in a previous L150 post, I haven't been great at recognizing God in the moment but there was no missing Him this time. As I struggled to balance Mamoune in her stupor, one of the WalMart managers (I presume based on her gear) happened to be standing right beside us. She asked if I needed help or if I thought we should call 911. I was waffling and trying to process the situation when I felt Mamoune's legs give way. She was out like a light. At that very moment, I heard a familiar voice say "Everything okay?" There stood Alphonso James. One very large, very strong, WalMart employee Alphonso James. "She's passed out Dwight (his nickname) I can't hold her."

He scooped her up and at that moment I realized how precious it is to have someone who knows your child by name coming to your rescue. We made our way toward a seating area and he was talking to her all the way. "Mamoune, you with me? Wake up, girl." We got her to a chair and soon got her back into the land of the conscious. The manager had already called for EMS and they arrived shortly thereafter. A little bit of time, a finger prick to check blood sugar, and several vitals checks later and we determined that a light lunch, dizzy glasses, and some possible anemia had created the perfect storm. Once we knew there would be no need for an ambulance ride to the ER --the paramedics stood watch while the managers opened a register for me and checked me out in no time flat. This is also when I realized that a good friend we hadn't seen in a while was standing nearby and had been praying for us while waiting for a chance to check on us verbally. Meanwhile, Alphonso retrieved our van from the parking lot and drove it to the front door.

And so, laying price wars, consumerism, and the annoyance of big box warehouse marts aside; when it counted the most the Walmart crew was on their toes. Maybe it was emergency training and protocol or maybe it was just good ol' fashioned customer service. Either way

-- THANK YOU WAKE FOREST WALMART--

and paramedics and firefighters and everyone who made haste and cleared the path for one frantic mama! And thank you God for putting friends (old and new) right where we needed them to be.

btw, Mamoune is feeling much better after a snack and some rest. She was pretty shaken up but I'm thinking the 11 year old embarrassment factor will be the longest part of her recovery. =)

Abundant Life

"I have come that they may have life and that they may have it more abundantly." John 10:10


a·bun·dant 
–adjective
1. present in great quantity; more than adequate; oversufficient: an abundant supply of water.
2. well supplied; abounding: a river abundant in salmon.
3. richly supplied: an abundant land.

Life more abundantly. Abundant life. I've been pondering this phrase for quite some time now. I don't think I want, really want, an abundant life. No. I don't think many of us want an abundant life and if I had to choose a substitute I would go with adequate. I want an adequate life. Adequate as in enough. I want enough money. I want enough time. Enough patience. Enough rest. Enough testing to still warrant my own sense of piety but with it enough faith to come out unshaken, unscarred.

But Jesus didn't offer an adequate life. In fact, the only thing adequate about Christ was his death and payment for my sin. It was enough. But everything else in the realm of following Him is wrapped up by this notion of abundance. And 2010 as much as...no, way more than...any other year shed a sometimes unflattering light on this abundant life.

This is not a life that follows a straight, manicured, well-illuminated path. It's more like the yellow brick road full of dark forests, deceptive poppy fields, and some downright terrifying flying monkeys--but made easier to traverse by the company of good friends.

Our joys this year have been abundant. Celebrating milestones like weddings and graduations. At times we have laughed so hard our sides hurt and are hearts have been full to overflowing. Abundant smiles.

Our sorrows this year have been abundant. Grieving the loss of thousands, hundreds of thousands, in a country so dear to us barely a year ago. Fearing for and grieving with our dearest friends and loved ones of those lost. Weeping over the loss of one precious, tiny life just a few short weeks ago. At times we have cried so hard our bodies ached and our hearts felt broken beyond repair. Abundant tears.

And to be perfectly honest, we've had more than enough, an abundance, of doubts and questioning. Times that our trust was so weak and our faith so shallow our own skepticism threatened to swallow us up. Abundant confusion.


Many of you have been good company. You've walked with us and helped us fight off those proverbial "lions, tigers, and bears" of uncertainty, fear, and spiritual attack. You've prayed for us, encouraged us, supported us. Abundant gratitude.

Looking back on the year, I see that all of this --ALL OF IT--is part of the abundant life that Christ gives; the storms and swells as much as the still moments. Even David's "quiet waters" were marked by "darkest valleys."

But I have this regret. That far too often I lost sight of the most important thing. The abundance of God's presence.

I don't want another year like 2010. Many of you may share this sentiment. I'd rather that no one face overwhelming natural disasters, that no one die a senseless and tragic death, that no one suffer injustice or abuse... the idealistic wish list could go on for days. And so mostly, I don't want another year of overlooking His abundant presence. His sufficient grace. His boundless mercy.

Whether 2011 is a frightful raging sea, a playful babbling brook, or deep still waters I want to (and may need occasional reminders to) remember, live in, and cling to the knowledge that God's love, my Savior's love, His very Spirit in me is adequate...sufficient...boundless....ABUNDANT!

Happy New Year!

Deep in the Heart of Texas

If you've been following this blog or our ministry blog for any great length of time, then you already know our connection to and affection for Haiti. You are probably also familiar with a some of our favorite people on the planet --Troy and Tara Livesay and their crew.

Saturday morning, we will be boarding a plane headed for Texas to spend a few days with these people who claim to love us but have never managed to hit NC soil to prove it. It's all good though because we need to enjoy being the better people in at least one friendship and Troy and Tara provide ample opportunity. ;-)

As Tara mentioned here, Tim and Troy became instant bff's after finally meeting just last year despite the fact that most men of their age and station in life would go to great extremes to avoid such an effeminate reference. It works for them without being too creepy. Sort of. =)

Since we saw them last summer MUCH (understatement) has happened. Their adopted home country being ravaged by an earthquake and their displacement in the States being top of the list. And while we know that they know that we love them and have been praying for them --this trip is not about them; it's about us. :-) And we will feel better after getting to see, love on, and squeeze them in person.

Aside from all the excitement about our visit, I am also experiencing a level of apprehension over the flight(s) that await me. I don't love to fly. I've stated this fact many times. It has not changed. Tim LOVES to fly. He flew often as a child and enjoys it immensely. He loves planes, knows lots about them and loves the whole shebang. He will be comfortable sipping soda and listening to pod casts while munching down the complimentary trail mix. I will be practicing shallow breathing, clenching my fist, and trying not to look like I'm about to spew while chanting my flying mantra "I will NOT throw up in a paper bag!" He will at some point attempt to chat with me about some random bit and I will smile sweetly while shaking my head "no." No as in do not talk to me, do not touch me, and for heaven's sake do not interrupt the "I will NOT throw up in a paper bag" mantra. Okay, maybe that's all a slight exaggeration but still, I do not love flying.

Additionally, I do not love "advanced imaging technology." I am not looking forward to the new screening process of having my x-ray silhouette examined by some remote security agent. Though I choose to believe that said remote security agent is not looking forward to it either. I've read lots of articles, blogs, etc. about the controversy and I get why people are wary but seriously, is it necessary to assume that all TSA agents are perverted, x-cons and sex offenders who signed onto the job as soon as they heard the words "invasive pat-down"? Did TSA break protocol and seek out new employees by posting a classified ad for people to "feel up airline passengers?" I don't think so. I choose to believe the whole thing is uncomfortable for ALL parties involved and for that reason, I will be polite, compliant, and respectful although...

I am fighting the urge to write on my belly with a metallic marker: "I SEE YOU LOOKIN'!"

Stylin' and Profilin'

A couple of days ago I enjoyed a nice hairstyling moment --with my middle son. Yes. Isaiah. The gargantuan child brushing my hair ever so carefully and securing it with a clip. Does that read as oddly to you as it feels in real life for me?


It's not that I don't consider cosmetology a worthy profession. I've seen Barber Shop for crying out loud. I know that this is a decent and respectable role for a strong, black man to pursue. And supposing my boy grows up to be a stylist for the stars, that will rock and my love and support for his accomplishments will be sincere...eventually...after some processing time and a small measure of unsuppressed snickering behind his back.


You see, ever since this precious boy was a mere 6 months old but being squeezed into 2T clothing, we have been banking on the notion that he would someday take the world by storm as a renowned athlete, use his prestige for God's glory, give back to his community, and well, maybe just maybe, set his folks up with a sweet little bungalow beach house on a private island in the tropics. =)

Superbowl ring? Sure.
NBA championship? Heck yeah.
2024 Olympics? You betcha!
Cover of Cosmopolitan? uh....gulp.


Maybe he can do both, I muse to myself as he palms my head before brushing the hair back out of my face. Yeah. And that way, when he flashes a "Hi Mom!" poster during the Superbowl and the camera pans my way for all of two seconds, I will be beaming with pride and sporting perfectly sculpted hair! A mom can dream, right?

Is there a counselor in the house?

Life can be pretty crazy and I suppose we all have coping mechanisms of one sort or another -those little things we do to reboot, regroup, recharge, unwind, etc. For some of us, it's a glass of wine and dark chocolate (thank you Juli Bourden for reinforcing this one) but for three year olds it looks a little different.

I know of kids who have imaginary friends. Bella has never had one of these though she does go through occasional seasons of being her own imaginary friend named "Maddie." And her imagination sometimes confuses us -like when she says to Tim, "Daddy, you be the dad." It's typecasting, we know, but either way those drama days of high school really pay off. Tim totally rocks the "dad" role; very convincing.

But now Bella has taken coping to a new level. She's become a dog. Her name is Titan or Cooper (real names of real dogs) depending on her mood. She crawls on all fours. Kennels herself in an invisible crate which she insists must be locked lest she escape and she loves to do tricks. It got a little weird yesterday when we had company and she came crawling into the living room and said, "Mom, tell me to sit so I can get a treat." She continued to practice her obedience training as well as fetch. Fortunately, the company found it more cute than disturbing.

And it was... until this morning. She came into the bedroom first thing and already in character. Tongue hanging out, on her hands and knees, panting. I told her that I was really hoping to see Bella for a good morning hug and kiss. No change. So, then I suggested that "Titan" could go and find Bella and bring her back for some morning love. She headed out the door in search of ...herself. Tim shook his head. "I can't believe your playing along to convince our daughter not to be a dog." I didn't have much time to ponder it since Bella, er Titan, returned at that moment. Still crawling. "Where's Bella?" I asked. "She didn't want to come" came the reply.

I knew we'd have to pay for counseling at some point. I didn't expect any of them to crack so early. If she doesn't return to her human persona soon we will schedule her psych evaluation and I will need more dark chocolate. In the meantime, she is awfully cute and quite frankly, she's the best dog we've ever had! =)

Lemon Broccoli

Oh, how quickly it can all go wrong! In the middle of cooking supper (read: cooking, chasing pre-schoolers in and out of the house, yelling at boys for wrestling like maniacs in the living room, monitoring neighbor children who are way too zealous about using the sharp knives to "help" me, and finishing up one young lady's science homework) I had a...well, what my grandma would've called a spell. Yep, I had a spell. I was suddenly hot, sweaty, nauseous with stomach cramps and a pulsing headache. No idea what prompted it (not counting the stress of the above mentioned chaos coupled with stifling heat as we try to save money on a/c).

I went down hard. An hour, a quickly cooled house, and two ibuprofen later, I woke up to my poor hubby trying to manage the hooligans and finish the dinner I had abandoned mid-prep. It was 7:15 pm. We don't usually eat that late. The domino effect. He had roasted the broccoli and cauliflower nicely but expressed concern that he hadn't put enough olive oil on it and it wasn't quite the way I make it. No biggie. He had also made a last minute decision to roast some chicken. So, we were waiting for that when Tim answered a phone call.

I decided to put on a pot of pasta to supplement in case the chicken wasn't ready until midnight. I reached up in the spice pantry for my sea salt and noticed a bright yellow can of "Lemon Scented Dusting Spray" (that's the super creative name for generic Pledge). I retrieved the can from the cabinet and handed it to Tim with what I thought would register as a what the heck is this doing in the spice cabinet? look. Turns out facial expressions do not translate nearly as well when one of you is on the phone and not really paying attention -justifiably so. Also turns out that the what the heck is this doing in the spice cabinet? look strongly resembles the here, maybe this will spice up the broccoli look. yup.

Oddly enough, I like lemon on broccoli. But I definitely prefer the fresh squeezed sort verses the "lemon scented" version with the poison control warning on its label. The broccoli was trashed. The little people ate cereal. And the rest of us scarfed down buttered pasta and piping hot chicken that will surely haunt us in our sleep tonight.

Anyone want to join us for dinner? We'll begin taking reservations soon. =)