Dirty Wordies

The other day I met a friend for coffee. She walked up, fashionably late. I said, "Girl, I love your shirt." She brushes back her hair and says, "Thanks. I got it from a subway shop in Shanghai." Of course she did. She's cool like that. She is one of my best friends from college. The kind of friend in which you know each others most hated words. She mentioned the blog. I asked if she had read the entry about the pigs. She said no. And I said she really needed to because if I could figure out how to do more than type in my blog I would have tagged her every time I write the word teat. She said, you know that's not it. I said I knew it wasn't. Her's was worse. Then she said mine. (Which happens to be "moist".) I raised my eyebrows and said let's call a truce and not say them together, K? We don't need to lose our Starbucks over this nonsense.

I bet you have a word you hate. I used to make cakes for people before I decided to sign my free time away with homeschooling. (I'm sort of kidding because the truth is I have regular hobbies that I like to use as an excuse to keep me from cleaning the house. Hey, it may not be clean but I started this blog, made this cake, you get the picture. Try it. It works.) Well don't you know I heard it all the time. "Carla, the cake was so moist!" And I'm thinking, don't you hate that one too? I don't want to draw attention to my wrinkled up face but it sux you just said that. So there. I can make a moist cake. Ugh. I said it. Official face wrinklage going on here.

My favorite Spanish word: enano. It means midget in Spanish. One time I answered in high school Spanish class "Los enanos quisieran helado". (Translation- the midgets would like ice cream.). Brilliant right? I think Señora Ramirez thought I was crazy but maybe with a Spanish class name like Margarita I was just under the influence of la lengua latina.

I personally think life is more fun spoken Dr. Seuss style. And with singing. Sometimes when my kids get irritated with something I will just start singing what is usually said. Thankfully, we made crazy children that like this sort of stuff and we end up happy. Now in the teen years, I'll be an idiot. But maybe then my husband will let me sing to him. Fat chance. I'm doomed to a life of crazy on my own. He'll be the stable old guy with that crazy as a lark wife everyone just overlooks and says, "It's OK. That's just Carla."

Another word I love? Jesus. What did you think when I just typed that? Did you like it? Did you think of cursing? Was a tele evangelist GEE SUS on your mind? (Annoying. Why must they say his name like that? I'm thinking, person, Jesus doesn't say your name like that? Peeee taaah. Or maaaay ree. Seriously. Cut the Jesus drama.)

 I love his name. Because I know at the sound of his name coming from my lips a thousand angels come to my side, demons shudder, and he is made glorified. He's a person, not a religion. He's a relationship, not a thing to figure out the rules to. He's the path to a most Holy God. He's my Friend, Companion, Counselor, the Everlasting and I love Him.

Sometimes when I don't know what to pray, or I'm struggling, or I just want to say hi, I just whisper his name. When I am laying in bed at night not able to sleep, I say "Jesus I trust you." Or when terrible events happen, I say, "Come Lord Jesus."

 We sang this in church yesterday. (One of my duets with my bow tie friend:). I love it.

Lost are saved, Find their way

At the sound of your great name.

All condemned, feel no shame 

At the sound, of Your great name.

Every fear has no place

At the sound of Your great name.

The enemy, he has to leave

At the sound of Your great name.

Jesus, Worthy is the Lamb that was slain for us, 

Son of God and Man, You are high and lifted up

And all the world will praise your great name. 

All the weak find their strength

At the sound of Your great name,

Hungry souls receive grace

At the sound of Your great name.

The fatherless, they find their rest

At the sound of Your great name.

The sick are healed, the dead are raised

At the sound of Your great name.

Now that's a name I love to hear.

Where Do You Sit?

Do you follow the rules? Today in church I decided to sit in the middle of the row. I refused to slide towards the end like they make you do. Seating rules. Stupid but I suppose necessary. Well I ended up sitting (in the middle) between a precious frat boy and a man with a bow tie. When the bow tie man sat down I told him I liked his Carolina blue attire, and we started taking. Fascinating man. Travels encouraging missionaries around the world. Has a house in the Dominican for this purpose. The music started and low and behold I was beside a man who didn't follow the chosen and frozen rules of church. This man sang. He hallelujahed. He danced. I *might* have tried to duet with him during a song or two. During the sermon, he interjected. He shouted here and there. He was awesome. He hugged me and I still smell like his cologne. Parting gift I suppose. He had a great story. He told me God had changed his heart. He was grateful. He didn't follow the cultural rules around us.

One time in church I also sat behind a big football player. Of which I said I am hating this, honey. Ugh. Can we move?? Can't see my preacher. (Spoiled rotten I am. There are not 1 but 3 screens I could have seen. Spoiled.) No worries. This broken guy had his head down most of the service wiping tears. Broken. Changed. Not following the cultural rules.

It's funny when I hear people talk about Christianity and rules. Why? Isn't the Bible a bunch of rules? It could seem that way. Sure. But when you meet Jesus, y'all, he's a good gracious rebel. He likes to dispel myths and make you broken to tears for his good glory. He even makes you want to read that book of rules turned love story. Even big football players who "should" act manly and walk with a swag are made low. And men who have seen their sin and his goodness and can't help but call out, dance, sing for his glory.

He's got big plans, I tell you. Setting your mind on things above sets you free from other people's concern for what you wear, what you do, what you drive and what you chew (as in food. I'm a poet and didn't even know it.) Getting connected to God- vertical sense- changes how you see things horizontally. He's wild. He's wild for you. I heard this on the radio as I typed- "My thirst for myself left me wanting more. I found myself face down on the floor."

What is filling your hole? Your desires? Because I've heard and experienced you can try to fill that place with lots of things. I believe it to be true, at least for me. Only he is wild enough. Only he can fill that place.

Where do you sit with him? I pray it's in the chair beside me. Because he's got a wild adventure for us both.

Dancing with Bubbles

I can't stop thinking about the following story so I'm blogging about it.  It has been in my head the past week. Daily. Not a significant happening.  Just a moment in my head I have never forgotten. Life's little moments teach us a lot if we are willing to be taught and open to it. So as a regular practice I entertain the insignificant because it usually becomes significant at some point.  This sounds so ethereal but we are all connected by experiences.  Now let me grab the pink plastic guitar upstairs and start some kumbaya...

So I had just finished up my student teaching for ESL (not Spanish as my dad told everyone back in the day, as much as it seemed like I taught Spanish sometimes.  Full immersion dad. Full immersion English.) Ok then.  It was late spring and hot. Everyone was winding down the school year as impatient as this time of year is.  Ask a teacher.  Well, we had just gotten a new student. He was straight from Mexico and from a community that spoke a dialect of Spanish. Think Indian Spanish.  (Phonetically fantastic and this stuff dredges up the phonetics nerd in me.) I tried talking to him but he just stared like, crazy lady, I am not tracking. The teacher and I weren't sure what to do. Our ESL materials hadn't been packed away, but there was a sadness about him. His regular classroom teacher was like, it's testing time, he doesn't speak English, what do I do,  please take him, I am stressed, etc. This kid needed to play.  So there were some bubbles from an end of the year party and we thought he'd like them.

Now this sweet one had come straight from Mexico.  No telling what he saw or experienced on his journey.  They came, enrolled him in school, and this kid was dressed like it was mid-winter.  He had on long sleeves and long pants.  He was hot.  Well I showed him how to use the bubbles.  Take the wand out, blow, don't tip the container, etc.  As soon as that first bubble went into the air, he started smiling.  First time I'd seen him react.  Then he started chasing them around laughing.  Losing himself in the fun.  I had to go back inside to finish up and left him in the courtyard with the bubbles.  But I could see him through the window.  He was face up to the sun, smiling, sweat pouring down his sweet face, feeling the bubbles touch his face, then laughing.  Blowing bubbles, chasing them around and throwing his head back in laughter.

My kids love bubbles too.  Actually who doesn't?  Except the ones who don't like to get dirty or have personal space issues.  People with personal space issues think even bubbles are offensive.  I know.  I don't judge.  But this story brings up a couple of touch points.  First of all- in my current life, my kids will never know the absence of toys.  We have bubbles galore.  We have a lazy American bubble machine that blows bubbles for them and their street friends. (Street friends is used loosely here.  Friends that happen to play in the street with them.  And we watch them and for cars.  FYI)  I can't change the fact that we are blessed in the sense of taking away my parenting their needs (food, clothing, shelter, love), and providing some wants here and there (I love giving gifts to them!!! My husband is worse so I usually put him on a budget.  He's Buddy the Elf at Christmas and sometimes there is no stopping him though.  He is not allowed to go to Costco, which happens to be the only store he shop at, alone at Christmas.)

But do you know what I watch for in my parenting?  When my kids loose their delight in the bubbles.  When they stop dancing with them around them.  When they stop losing themselves while they play.  What does this look like with my kids?  It looks like a longing look at a friends toys like they wish they had something, a desire for something more that is unnecessary or definitely not something we need.  When they say things like, "Mom, I want (fill in the blank here for a long list of things for birthdays, Christmas, Easter, and stupid holidays that get too much attention and commercialism like Saint Patrick's day, etc.)..."  That's when we need to take a step back and reflect on our blessings.  And our Blesser.  I am careful not to throw up starving children in other countries. (As in, clean your plate because there are starving children.) For example, when our neighbors moved recently and my kids said maybe we needed a bigger house I said, "No.  Our house is wonderful.  Look at our floor.  It's carpet.  And although it's dirty it's not dirt floors.  We are blessed.  We are richly blessed." Yeah. That's not always the greatest heart approach.  But I was fed the heck up at them thinking we needed something because someone else was getting something we personally don't need.

And about starving children in other countries?  Our church has a ministry to the heart of Durham, surrounding communities, and other countries.  People on the ground helping.  It's turned outward, not inward.  I am thankful it's ministries aren't just to the rich ones who might need to buck up and turn out.  It's like, hey. We love Jesus.  We love those that need help.  We'd love it if you joined us in helping them too.  Let's do this.  (My words, surely this is in print somewhere stated more eloquently.)  And maybe one of the big ministries is to the ones who are financially blessed and need turning?  Hmm...

And thankfully we are around lots of people adopting some sweet children from all over and I have to watch myself not to take them home with me.  Seriously.  My kids are seeing first hand the beauty of adoption and God's provision and little by little first hand experiences and gentle and consistent teaching has directed their hearts towards seeing God, not stuff.  A person's heart, not skin color. What God is doing in the nations around us.  And through us.  We have sponsored a Compassion child and taking developmentally appropriate first steps into difficult subjects of what little girls go through in other countries, and in our own country, sadly.  It is vile stuff but my kids need to (interject developmentally appropriately) see the dirt of sin and what God can do to transform.  God is still working on us.  He is still gently working on us.  Teaching us.  Loving us.  Convicting us.  Opening us up to what we can do with what he provides.

We are blessed.  The next question I ask myself is...why am I blessed?  Am I blessed to just hoard and enjoy or perhaps God has a bigger picture.  Perhaps God wants my heart posture to be with open hands.  Perhaps he positioned us to receive and turn and give.  

They follow the leader, and while they're in our house that's me and my husband.  Perhaps a more important question is turned on myself.  Am I dancing with bubbles?

Bikers Beware

I went for a run today with my husband on the tobacco trail.  First step onto the trail and my husband almost loses his life.  Y'all, those trail bikers don't mess around. The men wear those tight shorts displaying all kinds of manhood and those tight neon look at me shirts. Tour de France these durhamites think they're in. Tour de flipping France.  I told Austin it was a terrible way to die and to stay in the stupid yellow lines. Now I'm not judging.  I know you're the real deal. If I ever want to wear tight clothes and get on a bike that costs as much as my 2002 preowned minivan, I'll let cha know.  Until then, carry on, Carla, carry the heck on...

Now I love my husband. He is so nice like Mr Rogers.  I listen to him read my kids stories and I drift off to another happy world with Mr McFeely and the castle and that little train.  But there's this other side, too.  Ron Swanson. He's got this Ron Swanson flair.  Loving bacon.  Talking about waste of money politics.  Etc. Shall I say more?  Well, I decide to not wear my earbuds this go round cause I thought that was, well. Rude.  We could connect and I could hear his feelings (nod to JD Greear. We're doing our homework.  And so far my hubs has been happy.  All week long.)  Well he starts talking about why did Durham plant grass beside the trail they gotta mow and make tax payers pay for (good point), he tells me he's not moving for the next biker that passes, that he yields on the road but not the trail.  (He loves bikers.  I'm sure of it.  He was just feeling smug, I tell you.)  Then we both wonder if these mamas with the double strollers are more fierce than the tour de Durm.  We don't know but we think maybe.

Then he says "all those trees are coming down next hurricane." And I'm like, "What?"  He explains that they cleared the trail, and all those pines lining it were leaning on each other.  They cut some down, weakening the outside of them. Now when he starts talking like that I listen.  He's a NC riverboy and sure nuff knows his stuff.  He lived hurricanes.  He and his family waited the hurricanes out. Like come and get me already Bertha.  In their house.  With water lapping up through their air vents.  Yes they did.  He knows about hurricanes.

And I'm thinking (Maybe I said this, but really, at this point all I can remember is chanting "Sweat is fat crying.  Sweat is fat crying"), "Honey, are we grounded?  Truly grounded?  Leaning on each other for things only God has the ability to give?  Are we taking him seriously?" God dredge out the sin. In our marriage, so that if something catastrophic happens, we have clearer focus of you." And I know he provides. And answers. And sanctifies. 

And now I gotta run.  I am frying bacon as I type.  For real.  The good kind, too. Hoping not to burn it, waiting for Ron to come home from his errand.  I'm sure he yielded to those bikers.  And I pray we yield to our faithful maker.  

Hiding and Abiding

I am around my kids and people a lot.  I've found ways to manage. Sure. It's been a learning curve though. I can be the most extroverted person ever.  Then I need time with no input. No noise. No people.

My daughters are in Physics class as we speak.  I begged and smiled my second daughter in the class. She is a bit young for the class but thank you Lord the older one behaved and paved the way for this second one to get in young.  Bless her heart.  I told her to mama and parent that little sister and keep her on track.  The reward?  Candy.  I have no shame. Once you're in that lab, don't come out except to, you know, pee pee. You see, this is an entire hour and a half of no talking.  No listening. Just me and my good reads. I would have paid someone to help her color in the lines for this hour and a half.  Don't care. Physics just sounds loftier.

I can finish huge chunks of book and drift away to an unknown place. The other moms seem nice enough.  Sure I'd probz be friends with them or enjoy chatting about nothing.  But not this time.  This is sacred time I tell you.  No messin around here.

I once told a man that I was mourning my littlest giving up her naps.  He laughed.  I did not.  Any mom reading this knows what nap time is-beautiful. It's just beautiful.  Productive or Pinterest, heck, you could throw a dance party (a quiet one without wine and friends).  You can do whatever you want.  That's quiet.  Because you won't wake those kids up for nothing.  I mean, I used to out signs on the front door.  Do not ring doorbell.  Do not knock.  Or I will cut you.  Love, the Mama

The naps are long gone and I have this time.  And I'm hiding. From what you ask?  Well, there is this mom who talked my head off for the entire hour and a half one day. I ain't got time for dat. Seriously. I am outta words by the time we get here.  I just smiled and nodded and prayed dear Lord please make her go away.  I adore homeschool, talking, singing, answering, explaining.  I enjoy connecting with friends and strangers.  But, ladies and gents, I am hiding from this woman.  Oh, you always have patience?  Carla, grow up?  You'd never do anything like this?  Well, friend.  You are amazing. Amazingly lying.  Yep.  Cause I know full well that you hide too.  Maybe not from people.  But we all hide from someone or something.  Denial. It ain't just a river in Egypt.

Ahem, back on track.  (I don't mean to, well, come unglued.  Not so much the southern lady style.) Morally speaking, lets not hover over my decision to hide.  If I was nice enough and if I appropriately handled the situation, I probably could have said something like, Dear lady, You may not track with me on this.  But I use this time to decompress.  Take off my mommy hat.  Relax.  Unwind.  Because those little girls will be running to me when they get out.  They will need my undivided attention.  To be schooled.  To be delighted in the smallest things, sometimes told to me for the billionth time.  To pick the little one up and carry her cause it's cold outside. To taxi them to their next activity.  To quickly make a healthy dinner without any high fructose corn syrup, additives, GMO's or Elmo's, bought on sale cause dang it we have a budget to adhere to.  Clean up the dinner and dishes in time enough so they get their full 20 minutes of daily reading in and then, maybe then, they won't come out of their rooms for water or to tell me their ideas on recycling or world peace or to tell me they have a wedgie, once in bed so I can sit down while doing two loads of laundry needed for tomorrow and have my quiet again for a wee bit of time before I really need to go to bed.  Hopefully tonight before 12.  Seriously. This time allows to to reflect.  Think about the goodness of God.  I don't need words to fill this time.  I need quiet. I need God. I need his strength.  I. Crave. Him.  There is no substitute.  If I ever get anything done it's in his strength.  In him alone.  I can do all things through Christ. Not Carla. 

I will go read my wonderful book now.  Take my full hour and a half to love on myself.  Nurture my relationship with God.  And perhaps first on my prayer list should be better communication skillz.  But I'm at his filling station. And I get all my strength from him alone.  This is sacred time indeed.

Wanna Wrassle?

As a little girl, my parents, like most parents, we're mindful of what I watched on tv. However, if the tv was left on long enough into the evening, a tantalizing show came on-WWF. Sometimes I got to watch before they realized and turned it off.  "Oh no.  We need to turn off that trash."  I loved the trash. I was immediately drawn into the drama, loved the colors, the action, the ridiculousness that seemed so real.  A real snake, props, throwing chairs, excitement.

Fast forward a few years.  I worked at Gold's Gym every weekend. (Which sure beat my other high school jobs, including measuring trees for NASA.  Sounds cool.  Think chiggers, humidity, and sweat running down your legs.  Not cool.)  One weekend, Rick Flair came to visit.  He owned our gym apparently and ducked his head in.  I was expecting drama, excitement, maybe a little flutter in my heart. Nope.  Sorry, Rick, but what I saw was a man past his prime, still fit, but a tad waa waa waaaaa. No bling.

I write this because my girls have a taste for flair.  Not Rick Flair, but the drama of wrestling. How do I know?  We can't seem to get past the story of Jacob wrestling God.  They want me to tell them the story over and over. I found a video of the scene tonight and they watched, open eyed.  Did that really happen?  Did God really have bones? (a question tonight from my youngest) Was Jacob turned Israel really injured?  For life?  What did he tell people when they asked him what happened?  That's one heck of a battle scar if you ask me.  "How'd my hip get hurt?  Well, one day God and I wrestled."

I have one scarred up belly. I have these animal like stretch marks on my sides from my first pregnancy.  I like to call um, "Tiger tried to get me, but I was too fast, and I got away." I like to describe these with frantic hand movements.  The other set is from my string bean yet hugeness of a second baby.  I like to call those my "Drop it like it's hot like a baby" marks because she kept dropping and it was summertime and I thought I needed a belly bra.  Two sets of c-section scars. Then comes the last set.  I had my gallbladder removed, with an extra set of scars, as I had an additional needed surgery. That one is a sad, bizarre story, and one of the biggest blessings of my life.  That surgery saved my life and has since drawn my husband and I closer together, and closer to God.

Have you felt like Jacob? Pursuing God over and over to where you are one heck of a tired soul?  I sure have had my moments.  I actually had a day like that today.  Parenting is hard work.  Maybe physical exhaustion comes into to play here (might I interject I married a night owl who finds the most hilarious things to watch so that we go to bed way too late?  No babe, not your fault, just sayin I'm giving you a curfew. For real. Or else.)

What I am saying is that the battle scars we have, whether physical or spiritual, have the potential to be our greatest change agents.  Jacob was changed.  His name and future were crazy changed. He was blessed by his persistence.  I can imagine him telling the story.  I would have cried. Every single time.  God could have killed him.  But he didn't. It must have been hard for the God of the universe to hold back his power while wrestling.  It must have been hard to send his only Son, confined to a physical body, to a world where he knowingly would be rejected, tortured, and hung on a tree.  But God wants us.  He desperately wants us to enjoy him.  Fully.  Housing the Holy Spirit as a vessel until he returns in all his glory.

I'll get a new body in heaven.  But these scars tell my history.  I don't mind them one bit.

Stereotypes...Busted

I absolutely love it when a stereotype is counteracted.  Friday I took a trip to my favorite homeschool store.  I was reflecting on the way how far I've come in the past year in my perceptions of homeschool.  I thought it was funny how I knew nothing about homeschool and very few people who actually did it.  I came into the year thinking what am I getting myself into but what the hey, here we go kinda attitude.  Well, don't you know the first book I saw staring at me when I opened the door to the Gathering Place (doesn't the name just sound like a big hug already?) was a book on soap making.  I begged and pleaded with God to let me please please please see someone in a denim jumper.  Or even just a long denim skirt.  I just needed that comic relief.  Fully appropriate ending to swing this first year adventure to a close.

Funny stuff these stereotypes, huh.  I have found there are so many different types of homeschooling mamas.  From the moms groups within our city to the ones I know most closely in my co op.  And then there are the Duggars on TV.  You have mamas from all kinds of backgrounds, socioeconomic classes, religious beliefs, mindsets.  The reasons for homeschool are just as varied as the families they represent.  I'm sure if you ask one of us, we won't be offended, and probably glad to share why we do it.  What I feared was bubbling my kids off.  What I found were mamas of all kinds wanting to open their kids minds up to the world.  I have not met a mama in a denim skirt. (And if I did I would hug her neck and say bless you for an answered prayer:) I have not met anyone who makes their own soap.  (Although I did go through a period where I made my own deodorant.  However the sweat rings in my armpits were, well, socially awkward, so I have since stopped.  I do however still make it in my mixer for my mama.  Who swears by it.  FYI.)  And I have met women who have the most interesting, loving, and world changing outlook on education.  And I'm thinking, hey Jack, let's put these women in the White House.  Very few of them actually educators in their past life.

It's been a big change.  Zigging when others are zagging.  Making a choice to homeschool rather than the expected public school.  Can I be honest here?  It is a big change. I am a braver woman for it.  I'm more courageous.  I have also lost a friend or two from our decision.  It's different.  And it's wonderful.  It's holistic. Blending my faith with knowledge with relationships with community.  Where does one end and the other begin?

My most important teaching, or living, job is introducing my kids to Jesus, the Life Giver.  They need to meet Him.  They can decide if they love Him.  Want to follow Him.  I earnestly and deeply pray they do.  But we need to give them a chance. And nurture them.  And love them.  And parent the best way we know how given the means we are given, covered in God's love and grace.

Your kids make you crazy sometimes?  Can I tell you something?  Now lean in and listen carefully here, I'm gonna whisper because, well, it's embarrassing.  Mine usually drive me crazy because they struggle with the same things I do.  And my strong feelings from their sin struggles reveal a lot more than just what they are struggling with.  Usually it's me, too.  Being with them far more than usual has plain old sanctified me in more ways than I can count.  As a matter of fact, we are a tad behind in our school work.  Why you ask?  Well, this mama learned when things got stressful and I was about to lose my cool, to close the book and call a recess.  I am not a super woman in that respect.  (In the gym, yes.  I will put on music and throw around weights and exercise my body and my alter ego Super Woman.  But, in real life.  Not so much.)  I know my buttons.  I know my sin.  I call it out.  I ask for forgiveness.  And I pray to change.  But knowing your weaknesses is half the battle.  It's called freedom letting God fight for you.  And the heart change is worth it in the end.

And if you ever find me in a long denim skirt or jumper, please gently take my hand and help me out.

Pick Up the Pen

I graduated from college with a very practical degree.  But, it was hard work getting there.  Like all freshman at my university, I was a "premed" major.  Ha.  I ended up embracing all the college had to offer.  I tried on almost every single major.  Not just considered my options.  Nope.  I officially declared and redeclared my major 8 times between my freshman and sophomore years.  The counselor knew me by name.  She'd say, "You again?  What is it this time?" Every time I told her this was "the one".  For sure.  I wouldn't be back, I'd tell her.  I can still smell the office and see her red curly head. When I finally declared for the final time, I decided to double major and get an add on certification, which essentially was like adding a minor.  In the end I still couldn't narrow down just one.

There were so many choices.  Some not so great.  Some really fun ones. I'd worked so hard in high school getting into my college.  And then, God gave me the pen and allowed me to start writing!  I wrote for the school newspaper, was involved with Spanish organizations, volunteered, you name it.  Seize the day.  I was seizing, meeting new people I love to this day, and falling in love with Jesus.

I graduated.  I stayed in the area.  Same area I grew up in. I had several friends question my decision, "Don't you want to get away, experience something new?  Why stay?"  I had no reason to go.  And all the reason to stay was my handsome boyfriend turned husband:).  I started teaching at a public school. We got married.  I went back to school while working. We had kids.  I stayed home and recently started teaching my own kids via homeschool.  My days are filled with emptying the dishwasher, washing clothes, making meals, Targeting, and driving my minivan.  And I teach. (But that's just a means to an end to play with my kids. That may not hugely count:).

What I love about God- he is dedicated to making the ordinary person extraordinary.  He delights in taking our boring ole lives and breathing new life into them.  He wants us to pick up the pen and start writing.  He whispers through Scripture, "Where you are is not all there is.  Come with me. You may experience new life.  To its fullest!  I'll make you realize you're just playing in mud puddles.  I have a vast ocean at my beckoning call.  Come on now.  Are you in this?  All in? You read I'm good.  I am! You know only I can satisfy. Pick up the pen."

There is an ever present opposing force not allowing or wanting beautiful things to happen.  Am I being courageous to write something better?  Am I embracing whimsy and allowing my story to give way to character?  Do I refuse to pick up the pen. Choose to sulk at it.  Blame others?  Am I trusting the Great Writer of stories?  Am I taking my beautifully messy self, sitting at the drawing table and allowing God to use me?  Picking up the pen is a choice.  And you are able to rewrite your story.  Be courageous and write something better.  Jesus gave us that option.  It's a grace gift.  Do I turn Him down?

My expectations are low these days. Tomorrow I will wake up with kids to feed, laundry, and the dishwasher.  But there are stories in everything and in my everyday life I'm blown away at how extraordinary the ordinary becomes. God is at work. Am I picking up my pen to allow him to write?

What's Your Blankie?

When I was a little girl I had a favorite pink blanket. A blankie, to be precise. It had a satin trim I would rub between my fingers when I needed consoling.  When I went off to kindergarten, my blankie stayed home, and my teacher noticed me rubbing my fingers back and forth.  She asked my parents during a conference and mom figured out it was me missing my blanket, needing a little consoling.

I still love blankets. My husband got me a grown up blanket. A "napping blanket" which is really like a grown up excuse for a blanket, but it is the softest thing in the house. My kids will often times climb into bed with me in the morning and cover up with it.  I tell my hubs he probably regrets giving it to me.  It lays between us. I tell him it's our natural birth control method. He doesn't laugh.  I've since folded it up and put it over a chair in our room.  Blankie turned accent throw.  I'm slowly trying to grow up.

I use blankets year round. I am typing this blog under, you guessed it, a blanket. It's hot as heck sometimes and I just cover up and relax.  Sometimes sweat.  No biggie. I'm comfy.

What's your blankie?  You have one, I know it. You might not blog about it or be willing to admit it to strangers. (I've already blogged about my panties in Spain so what the hello kitty.  We're all good.)
With events like what happened in Boston, I am shaken.  Having kids takes this to another level.  There are so many dangers in life.  What or who are you clinging to?

I want to hug the victims. Each and every one of them. I want to hug them and tell them I love them.  Because I don't have access to them, I pray for them, their families, their doctors.  My general sense is lots of Americans feel this way.  But, you know what?  Operating in my day to day life since the bombings, people seem nicer. Today during lunch hour, in the most irritable grocery store I go to, people smiled. They let each other through. Someone helped me carry my groceries instead of just sitting, waiting on her friend. (Now maybe I'll blog about this sometime, but this was the grocery store where a man came after me screaming for backing my minivan out too slowly.  True story.  Crazy stuff at this one. I think the parking spaces are too skinny. But it's most likely because it's across from the "other" university.  I'm generally a better person closer to lighter shades of blue.  I am sort of kidding.)  Perhaps we are putting down our differences and finding common ground, so to speak.  We are all humans, feeling the same cautious way.

I think God wants us to live wildly.  He tells us over and over in Scripture to not be afraid.  Be courageous.  The scariest thing I can think of is eternity in hell.  Living in Christ, walking with Jesus, I am secure.  He goes before me.  He prepares a place for me.  My true citizenship is in heaven.  I am here but for a tiny little while, in comparison to eternity.  And God has numbered my days.  Now, I am not sure about the whole predestination/ free will aspect of life.  I have heard it explained that God's sovereignty and our wills as humans are like two sides of a roof on a house, they meet in the clouds, and we are unclear how or to what effect they have in the end.  I do know he extends kindness to us by answering prayers.  So I pray for the world, our leaders, our nation, my community, my family, my faith.  He is in control and there are no surprises with God.

I love this quote by Stonewall Jackson.  "My religious belief teaches me to feel as safe in battle as in bed.  I do not concern myself about that, but to always be ready, no matter when it may overtake me."

I don't know the immediate future.  But I want to be known by God as his daughter, fearless fighter, loving wildly, and taking leaps of faith.  Because if I fall, it's in his arms.  And, I am pretty sure he has a blankie for me waiting in heaven when I get there.

Riding With Jesus in My Minivan

I love a good kiddo story.  One of the silliest I ever heard was from a little latino boy named Fernando.  He was five years old and had just moved from Mexico, enrolled in our school, and was full of life in his tiny little frame.  I taught English as a Second Language and the kids were so relieved when they found out I spoke Spanish.  Well, surrounded by only English speakers and no friends, this little kid had saved up stories and words all day long and when I picked him up for class he just started speaking the most precious tiny Spanish sounds I have ever heard.  Non-stop. He told me a story about his chicken back home that flew at him and landed on his head.  He couldn't stand how funny the story was to him and fell out of his chair laughing.  I laughed so hard too and knew this kid and I will get along great.  And we did. And he started speaking English super duper fast. Probably because he wanted someone to tell that silly chicken story to.

I hated teaching. Yes hate is a strong word.  And then I got my Masters degree in the profession I hated.  (Wise move, eh?) But I loved ESL because I could get away with puppets, games, pictures, and songs.  No one knew what or how I should be teaching so we played.  They learned, sure, but we had a blast.  I loved it.  And I loved those kids.  I taught kids from lots of different countries.  Lots of different socioeconomic classes, family education levels, housing situations.  It was fun.  It moved me to tears at times.  I interpreted for conferences, helped a mama learn to read, and gave parenting advice (Lord help me. Having no kids of my own then no telling what I said!).  And I was a fill-in mama.  Yep.  Lots of mamas and daddies couldn't make it to everything.  No sick days. Hourly wages.  Family to feed.  So Christmas time I made my rounds to classroom parties and plays and clapped, and hugged, and stuck right by those little ones sides so they wouldn't feel ashamed that they were alone.  So they knew they weren't odd.  Out of place.  

Lonely.  That's a terrible emotion.  There have been times I have felt lonely surrounded by a plethora of people.  I met with a good friend recently. She's depressed. She's anxious. And she's lonely. And it seems to be her lifelong struggle.  She asked me if I though God was punishing her for something she did.  I answered a resounding, "No! That's what Satan would have you believe." (oh no, she brought him into it.  Yes I did.  And God be the glory great things he has done.  And no I didn't use the SNL church lady voice when I said it.)  Knowing this is a Jesus follower, I just started quoting Scripture.  There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. And others.  I am not a counselor or pretend to be one, but let me tell you the Bible is living, breathing, enemy fighting machine.  And I told her to surround herself in community, people who love her, and memorize Scripture.  She will pray. I will pray. And one day, God will make it right. 

Peek into my life...the past three years have been hard.  (Maybe one day I will be crazy enough to blog about it.)  There is one night A couple of years ago I remember so closely it gives me chills.  I was crying in bed, feeling sad, lonely, and then a bizarre thing happened.  I was overwhelmed by the presence of God.  Literally.  I felt like I could touch him.  I sat up and and thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever felt.  He reached down to me, filled the entire waste of space 14 foot ceiling room up with his presence.  And I thought, Lord, I will not doubt you.  You are real and I am not alone.  I am going to practice living in your presence.

 I loved God, sure, but didn't always practice him being with me.  He wants a relationship with me.  So badly he was willing to send his Son Jesus to die for me.  For my heart.  The sin.  The vile nature we all possess.  It is too good to be true. But it is.  It's called grace. God's Riches At Christ's Expense. It's a gift. You gotta accept it. And be willing to follow. But the more I know his nature the more I want to follow. He is that good. I'm never alone.

I was driving down the highway in my minivan the other day.  By myself I turned on the radio.  It was a song talking about walking together.  And I looked over, and I think I saw Jesus.  Pretty sure I did, hair all Pantene blowing, smiling at me.  He laughed.  I smiled.  Walking together.  Best place to be.  

Everyone Loves Him

This one is on my husband, again.  (And he approved this message.)  We went on our date and it was wonderful.  Used a gift card from Christmas, which makes the frugal gal in me happy happy happy.  Ironically the 5 things he said about me related to his weaknesses.  One of them was caring for he and the girls.  And then I told him he couldn't copy me.  That was mine, too.

Then this morning our pastor preached on serving one another.  He said that Jesus was the happiest person to ever live and he lived his life serving others and washing others feet.  He asked us to question our spouses once a day, "How can I serve you?"  It's counterculture.  It's counter-everything.  What's interesting is that my husband lives his life this way.  He always has as long as I have known him. 

And, a lot of lesbians love him, too.  I asked a couple of my friends why.  One said, "Because we like kind and gentle men who are secure in their masculinity without imposing it upon us.  I could see younger lesbians feeling safe becoming friends with him.  The fact that Austin is happily married is also a big factor in why they feel so comfortable becoming his friend."  I had to ask, because it happens all the time.  That's why I love him, too. 

When my oldest was a newborn and we actually made it to church (glad no one told me life would get so much harder with 2:), she always needed feeding when the sermon was going on.  I went to nurse, missed communion, and then in the end could't find my husband. Angry (why can't he stay put so I can find him?), I found him, and my anger stopped.  You see he had been waiting near the church office and had set up a little communion station in a quiet place for me.  He took the baby, and I cried.  Lord, you blessed me with such a good man and I am so selfish.  I took communion that day and prayed for a changed heart.  

He is giving, sacrificing, and rarely complains.  He's wonderful.  Of course I am partial, but living with him is delightful.  He gives, I take.  Not quite. Actually, he gives, I bend the knee.  He is my mirror, showing selfishness, the yucky in my heart, and God's goodness, all the while.  And, although we possess different strengths.  I am his mirror.  I do some 50's housewife stuff that might make someone raise an eyebrow.  I don't have to.  I want to.  I want to pack his lunch, and dinner (he works so long), and iron his work clothes.  (Well, that's partly selfish.  I like to see the line in his shirt and pants as he leaves for the day.  Makes the perfectionist in me squeal with delight.  I am working on this.:)  I want to help him because his presence makes me love.  Love our Creator. 

Well, not all the time.  So, because my sacrificing is as natural as an oil and water mix, I pray for it.  And now, I will be asking that question daily, "How can I serve you?"  He will be asking it, too, thus says JD Greear.  

I was also reminded of the triangle analogy.  As we both desire God and move close to him, we in turn become closer together.  I can see this in our 11 years together.  Although our faith has waxed and waned, we've asked questions, we've gotten answers, we've gotten giant questions marks, and we hold hands when we pray still.  Because we stick together like glue.  Jesus glue.  

The Church Asked...I Delivered

The minister at our church is doing a series on relationships.  If married, our goal was to have a date night and on the date night reveal 5 things about our spouse that help us. I get all giddy when asked to do stuff like this.  For years I have wanted to have a family vision statement, with attributing characteristics, maybe a family cheer we chant to encourage us.  He said, "No thanks, honey."  I tried planning family nights to do stuff like this. I've wanted to do marital counseling just for fun.  To connect.  He's not as hokey as me.  Perhaps that should be number one on my list.  He keeps me from doing some crazy.  In no particular order and quickly typing as my children are putting on a circus around me, here we go...

1.  Laid back- I have never experienced anything like him.  He calms me and doesn't care about insults, get rattled, does his own thing.  He's ok zigging when everyone else is zagging.  (Insert a nod to Zig Ziggler).  I like it.  Because that's me, too.

2.  Servant heart- He gets serving others, especially our family.  He checks on the girls, shepherding them in a way I have always said he is like a "mom dad".  In his profession, he hears lots of stories of hurting.  Hurting, sick bodies and hurting hearts.  He prays for his customers.  (And is a steel door with HIPPA, so I never know:)  He doesn't leave his customers at work.  He is always trying to research ways to help people.  Looking online at medical journals, asking questions.  Calling to check on people, sending sympathy cards, working through his 30 minute lunch, 12 hour days, asking people how they are.  He really cares. 

3.  He's quiet.  He lets me talk through stuff.  After almost 11 years, I am not sure how much he actually listens (kidding...maybe), but he lets me get my words out and process.  He summarizes my statements well:)  He doesn't fight dirty.  He talks, only when needed, and gives me space.  I watch and study him.  He's a mystery.  I now drive most places so he will talk to me.  I have you as prisoner, ah ah ah!!  

4.  He's forgiving and low maintenance- some of these are running together.  He tries to see the good in others.  He's not judgmental which I love.  Unless he needs to call me out on something, which I also appreciate.  He doesn't complain if a meal is nasty, a messy house, etc.  He's grace giving.  He loves I do all the shopping, and I love that he loves me to shop.  (And stays out of my kitchen, except for breakfast foods and sandwich making:)  I might need to add here that he listens to me as well.  I have a strange sense of feeling out people's character.  I have given him a heads up about some concerning situations through the years.  He might of thought I was not accurate, turns out most times I was right.  Women can read other women. Women can read other men.  Just sayin'... And I don't say this to give myself a little pat on the back.  Bottom line- God uses us as a team.   

5.  He's stayed true to our covenant.  We got married as mere babies.  We were dead set on getting married young, and so glad we did.  We had no idea what we were jumping into.  We just knew we loved each other and we loved the Lord and that was it.  Our wedding was beautiful, but I think the whole thing could have gone array and we were outta there on our honeymoon, ready to start our lives together.  We love each other more today than I ever thought possible.  If he's off work, I'm with him, he's with me.  We're each other's first priority.   

And one more...

6.  He's strong.  There isn't an ounce of machismo in him.  He has inner strength.  He is immovable.  You'd think with me being more vocal I could turn things around. (ha ha I learned that early) But if he feels a certain way, he does it.  

He does have faults, an ugly sinful heart, as do I dear goodness sakes.  But I tell you, his love covers all those.  Rephrase:  God's precious love shed through Jesus blood covers all those.  We'd go dry trying to produce romance, sacrificial love on our own.  God's love and provision doesn't run out.  I thank the Lord daily for him.  We're running this race together, and have two little sprinters we are working to stay in front of.  And typical Type A that I am, my homework is typed out for tonight's date.  He may not type his out.  Heck, he may not even always tell me verbally what he appreciates.  (He will tonight, those are the rules, buddy.)  I get him, and I read him well.  Let's hope so after all these years.  He's my favorite.  He's my biggest fan.  

A MTHFR Problem

I think God created weird things for laughter and entertainment.  Weird and awkward things have always happened to me.  I am comfortable laughing at myself most of the time.  I have grown into this role.

High school graduation.  I needed clear deodorant for my sleeveless floral 90's beauty of a dress.  I did what any one would do- I raided my parents toiletry drawer. But only my dad had the clear variety.  So I used it.  Getting out of the car at dinner I looked in the mirror.  I had black armpits.  Really?  Yes.  The dermatologist thought it was odd.

Sevilla, Spain, Summer of sophomore year of college. Study abroad program.  I pack 7, count them, 7 pairs of undies.  Why?  I was backpacking through Europe after the program ended and needed space for who knows what.  Olive oil to bring home?  A Spanish sword? French wine?  I dunno.  My señora didn't get around to washing all 7 pairs of undies so I had to hand wash them and hang them to dry. Well, my Spanish hermana (aka my roommate, Ayana, and girl if you are reading this you better feel sorry for yourself!  Just kidding. I love you:) announced to the world I was wearing dirty underwear.  I was a bit more proper back then and was humiliated.  Odd. I know. Awkward event and awkward me.

I was at my female doctor office the other day.  The nurse asked why I was there.  I said, "You meant to say upstairs or downstairs, right?" She laughed and said I should work there.  Maybe I missed my calling.  Well, after asking my husband to be weighed instead of me (make yourself useful, eh?) and all that jazz, I met with my doctor.  I told him we had a lot of catching up to do.  It had been a while since I had seen him, and let me tell you a lot has happened in the past 6-12 months.  Some of it would allow me to call myself "Gladys".  I'll spare you the old lady details.  Bottom line is, I got some surprising blood test results.  I told him it was a very naughty acronym, MTHFR and yet he didn't laugh.  It is funny though especially for a lady that tries to keep her mouth clean.  I still think its funny and laugh when I hear my mom describe it.  Anyway, it's a gene mutation that doesn't allow me to process folic acid.  I shouldn't eat folic acid fortified things or take it in a vitamin.  I should take the more natural form of folate, which I do, and I think I am beginning to develop super powers from it.  Stay tuned.

It's significant because it causes a host of health problems and it's genetic.  My dad has had a few things despite being lean as a string bean.  He has begun to take my magic pill too and I might have seen his bald head start to glow the other day.  Or it could have been the sun.  I don't know.  The pills work.

A friend once told me that Psalm 139 is her birthday Psalm. She reads it in her birthday every year.  (which is so less weird than my new tradition- writing my eulogy/obituary.  Perhaps future blog post.)  Each person is fearfully and wonderfully made.  Made in the womb.  Handcrafted by a Creator that hung the moon, stars, planets.  Made the awkward and the smooth places. Knows our getting up and lying down.  Sees our thoughts from afar.  Knows us intimately.  Searches us and knows us.  Draws us gently to confession of offensive ways. And still loves us.  Crazy, huh?  I think so.

I'm Falling

This post isn't geared for the morally upright and I apologize in advance.  It's confession time, folks.

My husband and I think watching people fall down is downright hilarious.  I don't even know when it started being so funny to us.  Perhaps in college.  We had a friend who would make himself fall down in the Dining Hall just to get a reaction.  It was so funny.  Sometimes food would fly but always he had someone unsuspecting help him up.  One time he even got hurt.  It was so worth it.

One time, also in college, I was walking back to my dorm.  We had a saying that the bricks on the path just jumped right out at ya.  I mean bam, they popped up, and you would trip. My story isn't about bricks though.  I was walking all coolio in my JCrew pullover (totally purchased from a second hand store) and my book bag, heavy, cause I was a studying fool.  Then I see a banana peel on the sidewalk.  I think, Carla, just step over it.  Well don't you know I stepped right on that puppy and slipped, just nearly catching myself.  The huge football player behind me says, "I am so glad I saw that.  I only thought that happened in cartoons."  So glad I could dispel that myth for you , Brutus.

There is also a phenomena called "gallon smashing" going on in the teenage sector.  There is a YouTube video showing the original gallon crashing boys and let me just tell you it is so so funny.  The kids trying to mimic them, not so much.  Actually the whole concept might offend some and kiddos are now getting charged, which is terrible.  Wasteful.  Stupid.  Naughty.  I don't care.  It is freaking hilarious.  I have seen my husband cry 4 times in our marriage, 2 of those being from this silly clip.  One time I had a difficult day.  He plays this video, and bam, laughter ensues.  He keeps saying he's going to try this at work with pill bottles or some such nonsense and I just keep telling him to behave and let the funny guys do it and get in trouble.  He's my sugar daddy and we need to keep him employed:)

If someone falls down while watching TV, we reach for the remote and rewind, especially if its a really good fall.

Why is this concept so funny?  I don't know.  It's kinda like the daddy daughter dance clips where it's all sweet and unchained melody and then, Scratch sound, "I like big butts and I cannot lie," with a dance break and crazy moves and every one's like, "What??"  A break in action.  Surprise.  And bam, funny as heck.

Where do we usually draw the line?  Well we turn into adults when someone gets hurt.  Like when I was 8 months pregnant with my youngest and I fell down the dang stairs, I hobbled my Braxton Hicks self over to the couch to see the damage.  Sprained and swollen.  Memories of multiple nightly trips to the bathroom using our computer chair to roll myself in, plop on the potty, and wheel myself back, carefully.  (Then the story gets funny though.  I was like a beached whale with both my pregnancies.  Very healthy, I tell you.  I remember sitting in the back of my husband's truck with his high school Umbros on (all that would fit) and my shirt 5 inches too short, swollen ankle, waving to the neighbors.  Up walks my cute and petite pregnant neighbor.  And I'm like, "I just washed up.  Someone get a crane and move me please.  I need rotating or something.")

Not funny when I fall.  Not funny at all when I get hurt or hurt others.  Amazing to me that God knew that I would slip on that banana peel.  He knows when I'll sin, fall short, now and in the future.  He knows how utterly lowly I am, and he chose to send Jesus.  He died for all of my falls.  I am perfect in Him.  My response?  Love Him, enjoy Him, spend time with Him.  Stop striving for perfection.  I was made righteous in Jesus.

And dear Lord, please don't let me fall and let it go viral.

Move it or lose it

It always happens when I am in a hurry. We were on our way to pick up my dad for a Costco trip.  (Being  out of coffee is a dangerous place to be in our house.  Our favorite is on sale $3 off at Costco now, FYI.  So I bought 3.  Yes I did. And I've been shaking all freakin' day.  Its been great!) Our schedule was a tight fit because we had gymnastics after that, and I knew they would need to eat, and, well,  you know how that goes.  Plus, we love Poppy time and I didn't want to be rushed.

I was making plans in my head while driving down the road, behind a FedX truck thinking, surely it'll go right.  Nope.  Turned left, just like me.  Dang it.  I inside grumbled (because you know the peanut gallery in the back seat hears, memorizes and repeats all the bad stuff) until we got to a really narrow bridge.  I know that bridge well, sadly, as one of our High school classmates lost his life there a few months ago.  It's a narrow bridge and up on a hill, so you can't see but only so far ahead of you.  They were also doing road work on this said bridge and there was no one directing traffic.  There was a car attempting to pass over the single laned bridge but it stopped seeing the big truck coming, of which I was behind.

It was then I was glad I was behind the big truck.  I forgot about being slowed down, getting to my next place.  I was thankful to stay behind the truck and safely pass over the bridge behind it.

It's like that waiting on Gods timing.  Waiting on him seriously slows me down.  I don't like it.  It stretches me, and it's just plain frustrating. But I know I am in good hands with him.  It's a dichotomy. Knowing he's good, yet knowing things aren't the way they should be.  God you are good, but why won't you fix this?  Already, not yet.

I have prayed the same prayer for years and years.  I told my mom the other day I was going to stop praying for this. God has heard me over and over and no change.  She said, "Oh no.  You just keep praying. You just ever know, Carla. Be the squeaky wheel with God." I want immediate results.  A quick fix.  A happy ending.  What I've learned is that God is just as much concerned in the process as the end result.  What if I was only given this prayer request to change me, not the situation?  (I do pray it's both though. And I can also assure you I am changed through this!)

So if you have prayers you've prayed over and over, sometimes through tears, hurting, frustration, bless your sweet heart as I am there with you.

But those who hope in the Lord shall renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; They will run and not grow weary, They will walk and not be faint.  Is. 40:31

Our hope is in the Lord.  Only he is strong enough to carry our hope.  Only he is the true hope. Everything else fades away eventually but God and his Word stand forever. Be encouraged.  Pray.  Pray through Scripture and know that a very good and gracious God hears. And cares. And delivers.

I vow to quit saying, "Move it or lose it" while driving, as my eldest said this to me the other day.  (At which i said, "say what chica?!) And I need to bow the head and confess my worried, anxious heart to a very good Father.  He's got me.

Here Piggy Piggy

This weekend I had a childhood dream come true.  I held a baby micro mini pig.  Two weeks old.  You see, I asked for a pig from Santa in the fourth grade (about the time they were getting popular), my letter was published in the newspaper, and sadly I never got a pig.  (Seriously, we had 2 dogs and 2 cats.  We didn't need a dern farm.)  I absolutely loved pigs.  I wrote about them, collected piggy things, and even prayed for God to give me one.  Don't you love it when God remembers?  He remembers our dreams, even 24 years removed.  I smiled with him that day, with a dream come true represented by a warm little pig, burrowing her little snout in my elbow, then nestling up on my neck, falling asleep.  He never forgets.  I thanked him and I was thankful I did not steal her.  I threatened My husband and tried my very best to convince him we needed one, but, alas, no piggy for me.  I suppose the family needs mama to stay out of prison.

We loved the pigs, we did.  The babies were awesome.  Always trying to nurse, they were.  Finally a mama consigned to lay down and don't you know those 11 babies started competing for a teat.  (Did that word make you feel uncomfortable?  Me too.  So I am going to teat-drop lots.) She started grunting.  I looked at the farmer.  She was mesmerized like she was watching a sunset.  I said, "Wow." She said, "I know.  Do you hear her little grunts? She sings songs to them as she nurses." I thought, No. I was more thinking about how MY teats were hurting just watching her, and I'm not even lactating.  Just then a male pig tries to hump her, mid-nursing.  She pushes him off with her head, grunts as she gets up and says something like, "This ain't nothing.  I nurse my babies.  I have a ton of teats.  He tries to hump me.  I'm a daggum strong mama pig.  Ain't no body messin' with me."

The farm owner said, "I've got to show you something." Happily moving away from the teats, I followed.  She led me to a chicken nestled in the front bushes, sitting on what had to be 10 eggs of her own and a turkey egg.  (I still do not understand how it got there.)  She was so faithful to those eggs.  She never left them.  She got angry and ruffled her feathers when the farmer lifted her to show me.  Every so often she would carefully roll them with her beak or leg and sit back down.  That was one dedicated mama.  She even adopted that little turkey egg.  The farmer then said, "Yeah, with the extreme cold we've had, none of them will probably develop.  But I let her sit anyway and try her best. She would be so upset if I took them away from her, sweet girl."  The compassion and grace this farmer showed moved me.  Whenever I sense huge compassion, I'm immediately drawn to God.  It's like I am trying my best to parent, sitting on my eggs, so to speak, teaching my girls about the world, being a mama hen.  And, I will never do it perfectly.  I may try to do all the best things for them, but in the end, God Himself is glorified when I. Love. Them.  Did you hear me?  Love them.  Send them to the best school? (Or provide them with homeschool awesomeness)  Nope.  Amazing bank-breaking vacations?  Nope.  Making sure they have the things the other kids have so they aren't weird, outcasts?  Nope.  Love them.  Love the stinking mess out of them and point them to Christ. Jesus.  The rest of God's blessings will be revealed when He thinks we need them.  The Only Thing they need for eternal survival.  He is the only One that can attach us to a greater purpose, eternal life, and teach us how to go unto all the world and be His hands and feet and cast off sin, and glorify Him and ENJOY Him!  He's that good. And He's speaking all the time, even through a mama hen.  Am I listening?

These days I think my cowgirl boots are more urban than country.  But, I like pretending from time to time.  And I think I'll go hug my kids now.  I'm really good at that:)

We Are People of Walmart

I needed to make a quick (and disciplined) trip to Walmart.  I needed a vacuum.  I had to take the girls.  Ugh.  It's definitely more exciting with them than without them, but sometimes I feel like we're a pink hurricane going places.  It can be painful.  My oldest says, "Mommy, you need a cart."  I say, "No way.  I buy more with a cart."  It's true.

Well, I had to ask the Walmart lady where the vacuum I wanted was.  (At this point my little was twirling and singing, "Bibbity bobbity boo!" and my oldest was intent on helping me so we could finish and peruse the arts and crafts section.)  She motioned it was on an end cap, and my oldest went a runnin' to it.  The lady said, "Well, honey, let me get you a cart."  And I said, "Naw, I got it."  ("Naw??"  Well, there are times the Dirty D comes out.  I code switch.)  She looked at me in disbelief and insisted on getting me a cart.  About that time, my oldest comes over holding this huge, heavy vacuum box saying, "Mom, is this the one?"  The lady says, "Like mother like daughter."  I beam.  (Because wouldn't you?  I mean, don't you?  I'll answer for you...yes!)

All pride aside, I do like to lift heavy things.  I do this because I come from a line of strong women.  It's in my genes.  And when we're not lifting heavy things, we are emotionally strong.  Because life isn't easy.  My mom called me a month ago and said, "Carla, I told your dad we are going to hire a painter this time.  The height on the steps might be a bit much at our age."  You see, they have painted their entire house themselves and are a do it yourself team.  (I will not mention their ages, because ladies don't do that sort of thing, but they order off the senior citizen menu.)  Last fall she got tired waiting for dad to get home to help her, and that little, petite, zumba-four-times-a-week lady flipped the flippin' king sized mattress all by her dang self.  Straight up she did.

And I don't like to accept help that often.  (Wow this feels like a confessional.)  Recently a friend made me hire someone.  Or else she was calling them for me.  I am so appreciative for the help, but it's not a normal feeling.  If I can do it (and let's face it, you can learn anything off YouTube), I will do it myself.

Am I worried about something?  "I got this.  It's ok."

Ugh. I am so frustrated with my kids!  Bedtime's almost here.  I can relax then.

"Wow, I have no idea what to say or do in this situation with (fill in the blank).  It's just too hard to face."  I go to someone else, or a book, or a yummy snack, or the TV, or whatever else will deaden the feeling of uncomfortable, I am out of control, and I don't know what to do with myself.  What we really want is someone to tell us, "It's going to be ok."  Right?

And Jesus's presence says, "Come to me.  I will give you rest.  I will fight for you."

My God is not a pull yourself up by your bootstraps kinda God.  And sometimes I forget that I am not responsible for carrying as much as I do.  He sent his Son to cover me.  Sustain me.  Fight for me.  Love me.  Guide me.  Forgive me.  Redeem me.

I like to pray the Gospel prayer.  Lord, In Christ, you don't love me more or less depending on what I do, you are all I need for everlasting joy, as you have been to me, may I be to others, and I'll measure your compassion by the cross, and your power by the resurrection.

I'm done spinning my wheels.  At least for today.  Tomorrow is a different battle.  But I think I will continue to go to Walmart without a cart.  Because that's how I roll.

Carla Hide Yo' Crazy

There are certain things I can't hide.

Tonight I met a friend from high school around town.  I hugged her, a few times, and decided I was so overcome with happiness I hugged her husband, too.  Afterwards, I was like, "Carla, tone it down."

Two days ago, the house painter and I shared stories, raising children in an over abundant society and education choices for kids.  While he was painting.  It took him 2 weeks to finish the trim on the house.  (It looks awesome and I'll totally give you his number.)

Out shopping one day I told a woman I thought the outfit she was trying on looked awesome on her.  She then shared with me every article she found and what a great deal she was getting. (And I left paying $30 for a $300 coat. Oh yeah!)

Last week I told my very conservative, older dental hygienist that she had a really nice figure.  (note: I did not say she was a "hot mama" or other nonsense words like that;)  She turned red and was a little embarrassed but shared her weight loss/health story with pride.  Then she told the dentist I had the cleanest teeth she had ever cleaned.  True story.  (My husband stares at me while I brush hoping to mimic my strategy. Also true story.)

I went to a Chinese medical doctor and he said I had too much fire.  A little too much Chi to be exact.(At that point, I said, "Well, shoot.  I could have told you that!" :). I had good energy but needed to relax.  (Ha! Imagine that.)

Every year for our termite inspection, we clear the schedule and brew a cup of coffee.  We sit and talk with our exterminator for hours.  He is a wonderful person.  He has a great pound cake recipe.  

I talk to people wherever I go, and find out life stories, laugh and talk really loud at times, and sometimes I snort, and then I get flushed, because I snorted.  My kids know when mommy says, "Five more minutes" she really means we will close the place down.  

There is a good story for every question.  No easy one sentence answer when it comes to me.  I can' t help it.  I was made to connect.  Well into my thirties, I make no apologies. It is what it is.  

My sweet introvert husband married an extrovert. We are perfect for each other.  I light the fire under his tail, he puts it out, and we end up leveling each other in a way only the Lord has in mind.  I tell him he is my human Chi leveler.  (Is there such a thing?)  He walks in the room and I breathe.  His testosterone presence balances us all.  He is wonderful, caring, loving, gentle, and strong.  

I haven't always felt that way about the balance.  When we were first married, someone told us that we would have a difficult marriage since Austin was laid back and I was, well, not so much.  Not what a woman should be.  (Say WHAT?  I know!)  I spent the first young year or so of our marriage trying to tone it down.  I tried to be different, quieter, less focused, goal setting, whatever.  It wasn't authentic me.  It wasn't fun.  And, it wasn't God's plan.  At almost 11 years, we haven't had a difficult marriage.  We genuinely love each other more than words can express.  And that's all that matters.  Love covers a multitude of sins. As we approach our anniversary in a few months, I am so thankful I love his introverted self as much as he loves my extroverted crazy.  

My prayer has been, Lord, take my crazy and use it.  Let me be a light for you. Confidently. Saying words that might help someone who needs connecting to the True Counselor.  May I spread your glory. Dredge out those parts of my personality that you deem unholy.  May your love spill off me so that those around me can't help but get wet.