We mark the 8th anniversary of one of the most horrible days in our country's history today. I miss President Bush's fatherly presence on a day like today.

I wrote my recollections here, re-posted from 2006.

And here is where I discover that we're weird...

"...have never attended a day of school. They've never known a neighborhood friend. They sleep together in the same room. And the only outsiders they know are strangers their father would bring in to entertain them."

-as posted on the New York Post site about Michael Jackson's parenting choices for his children before his death.

The article goes on to quote those in the know about how kind, confident and responsible his children are. So, we appreciate the "end" but can't find it in ourselves to validate the "means" of getting there.

I know a little bit about that. *wink*

My littlest girl in her hand-made curls...

The position has been filled.

Little Cuddlebug is about to turn 7. In the spring, she finished up her first year in the grade school program at Bible Study Fellowship. There she met a little girl named Sydney, but Sydney moved away. And then there was Rachel. On the last day of class, the two exchanged addresses.

Since then, Cuddlebug has written to Rachel more times than I can count. She wrote to Rachel to tell her what she had been doing this summer; she wrote to Rachel to share with her the fact that she was still waiting for a reply from Rachel; and she wrote to Rachel to guilt her a little bit about her civic duty to write back to her.

And when none of that worked, she pestered Dumpling to step up as the big sister. I know, because I found a letter--from Dumpling to Rachel--politely, but firmly exhorting Rachel to be about her civic duty and write back to her sister.

But really, at this point, I almost hope Rachel never replies. God knew what He was doing when He gave these two souls to the same family 26 months apart. Really, why should either look further than the other side of the room when she wants to play with a fun friend?

Kitchen Help

After dinner, many hands make light work. There's Fifi at the sink. Jim is at the fridge and little Cuddlebug is behind him, see? Dumpling, never mind the camera. Get to work.

No chance. She and the camera were meant to be together. It beckons her and she cannot resist its lure.

"I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille."

Ahem, Dumpling? The Bible says that if you don't work, you don't eat and I think there is dessert in the freezer.

Let Her Celebrate!

Let the mother of many celebrate her numbers
and glory in the ornaments which decorate her life.
Let her not be swayed by the scoffers,
nor riled by the ignorant.
Let compassion be her way
and humility guide her thinking.
Let her pin her badge of many blessings
to her breast and be known
for what the Lord God has called her to do.

Let the mother of some celebrate her bond
and relish the closeness that more time permits.
Let her not feel scorned by Leah or Hagar,
nor be jealous of their cup.
Let diligence be her walk
and contentment lift her prayers.
Let her perceive what is hers
and freely pursue wonderful things for the dear ones
that the Lord has entrusted to her care.

Let the mother of one celebrate her treasure
and delight to invest her whole self in this one.
Let her be convinced of the harvest to come
from this Isaac, this John.
Let fear be her beginning
and wisdom be her trail.
Let her seek the Lord
and proceed with awe in raising up for Him
this blessing so special as to demand her all.

Let the mother of none worship the Lord
and praise Him for drawing her close to His heart!
Let her rise up and look beyond her gate
and make her good works available to others.
Let trust in His plan be her sustenance
and service to His will be her drink.
Let her revere the gift He has given
that she should have liberty to love Him
with a love freer from distraction.

Composed by Grafted Branch of Restoring the Years

We homeschool year round so we can spend the spring like this...

Scarborough Faire 2009

Come on girls! It's time to go to the Student Days at the Waxahachie Renaissance Faire! Stop spinning in that chair and let's go or it will be over before we get there.

Wow! This is great! Our first friend? The town crier...

Dumpling was pretty offended for most of the rest of the day after she found out this jester named his dog, "Blockhead."

We stumbled upon this merchant selling psalteries. It was more of a financial commitment than we were willing to make, but she let each of the girls play with it for a minute anyway.

Cuddlebug stopped our conversation cold as we all heard a real song coming from her turn at the instrument! She quickly correlated the strings to piano keys and enjoyed a nice moment outside her sister's musical shadow.

Here we are waiting for the Birds of Prey show which turned out to be one of our favorite moments of the day.

On to the joust! The girls were concerned that someone might die.

And this moment was pretty spectacular!

Now to try her own hand at the rings. Uh...Dumpling...you might want to
l e a n out a little and reach for the ring.

This was her 3rd try...or her 5th...but isn't she sweet?

Cuddlebug rung them on her second try...

...it's what she does.

There were exotic animals to ride; Cuddlebug chose the elephant.

Dumpling picked the camel.

Fifi's dress kept her feet on the ground, so she visited the bows and arrows booth and ended up buying a pretty nice set up from this Christian man. His wife makes the arrows by hand.

Where to now?

Of course! The costume shop! Fifi sewed that dress she's wearing (that's another post entirely) and was intrigued by the professionally made costumes that were for sale. Well, she was interested until she discovered that they were for sale for many hundreds of dollars.


O.k....time is short girls! We had better move fast to fit it all in before the closing cannon boom!
Double time--here's a picture to prove that Mommy was there too...

Everyone but me riding the Crow's Nest...

Cuddlebug gets her brain tightened. Thankfully, when he finished, she was able to correctly answer that 2 + 2 = 4! *Whew*

$1 sanctioned opportunity to hit each other with big, padded sticks...

Cannon blast! Time's up! Get out!

King someone or other. Fifi could probably tell you who...along with his marital and blood lineage for generations in either direction.

And finally...the nobility bade a fond farewell to the common peasants. And home we went to the 21st century.

A Land Flowing with Milk and Honey...

More of Him; less of me.

More listening; less instructing.

More patience; less guilt.

More building up; less tearing down.

More ease; less weight.

More charity; less recompense.

More beauty; less style.

More togetherness; less "ministry."

More in the moment; less for the future.

More flexible; less brittle.

More resolve; less compromise.

More humility; less authority.

More general; less specific.

More people; less networking.

More compassion; less disdain.

To work with my hands, to be about my business quietly, to love mercy, to do justly--to walk humbly with my God.

These are the things for which I am trusting the LORD to teach me anew as I seek to return to my first love...that wondrous, far-away place that flowed with the milk of His salvation and the honey of His love when first I confessed my sin--my need--and received Jesus as my King. It was the land of my rebirth after He led me out of the bondage of my Egypt: the place where Self sat upon the throne and addiction disguised itself as freedom.

I didn't know much for the first years. I lapped the milk of the Word and didn't give a second thought to the meat that would come later. I was busy relishing the liberty that swelled in my soul: liberty to say no! to sin rather than to enjoy its fleshly pleasures and be indebted to its death; liberty to know and be known of the One Who made me; liberty to stop kicking at the goads and take up my side of the yoke and simply become who the LORD made me to be.

But the meat came too quickly, and though I was confused and discouraged, I did not choke. Instead, I gathered with others in a simpler place until my teeth budded and I could better chew the truth and beauty of this glorious God Who is the same yesterday as today and will be tomorrow.

Today I'm thinking that it's a beautiful thing to realize that He sees us in our Egypt--our house of bondage. And when our suffering is ripe, we cry aloud for rescue and He leads us out because He is so merciful. And sometimes fear and uncertainty drives us to doubt or whine, but even so, He seeks to save us from our trouble in the dry desert riddled with serpents. Some do not believe and so they perish in the midst. Others obey Him and look to the sin staked upon the pole--and live.

The gift of eternal life came like that: Jesus Christ was made sin and nailed to a cross. Saved from our common condemnation are those who look to Him--from every tribe and nation--any who will take heed of His existence by the evidence of His creation and then seek to know Him more fully in the revelation of His Holy Word.

It's there that you may seek peace and pursue it....

We Love...

We've been invited to our first ever Valentine's Day party!

And we're abuzz with questions and excitement over the unknown!

Dumpling and Cuddlebug chose their card stock, Bible verse and cloth ribbon to make their Valentines special...

...but they're a little concerned over whether there will be boys in attendance. I remind them that the love of Christ is for everyone. Even boys. *wink*

Conversations

Did you know...that white potatoes come from Peru, not Ireland. The Incas planted them in the Andes. On the border with Boliva--even today--potatoes are freeze dried and trampled to wear away the peel and produce a kind of mash.

Did you realize...that fifty years ago housewives stayed home and the milk and produce man came to them!

Have you heard...that someday, there will be a one-woman shop selling baked goods behind a candy counter where penny candy will make its come back.

Had you heard...that Charles Dickens died in the middle of his final book--a murder-mystery called Edwin Drood. Authors have been picking up the story and trying their hand at an ending ever since.

Did you know...that the last scene in the Prince Caspian movie was filmed in Slovenia.

Did you know...that the folded over lace-up back of a dress bodice is called a placket.

These are the things we five talk about as we share our space and time and meals together. And later, when the self-inflicted expectations threaten to overwhelm me, I stop and take a good hard stare at these little girls and remind myself that the people before me are not yet who they will be, but are rather--just someone they are passing through. They are to be relished.

Have you paused to take stock of what God has given you today? What are you and yours talking about?

I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up!

...fallen off the blogging habit, that is. I'm going to try to post tomorrow night...

If I'm not around here much 'till after Christmas...

...it's because there are so many more wonderful things at which to gaze.

And then he walked away...

Years ago, I learned a very important lesson that this week, I forgot completely.

I tend to look at all of life through the filter that is my life. I have a home. Clean clothes. Healthy food. Facilities. I assume everyone desires the same, and that if they don't have it, they want to be rescued.

Martinez proved me wrong today--and freed me, too.

I had gone downtown on an errand this morning, and when I returned, there was Martinez--hunched over, head down--on his bus bench. I pulled up and handed him another 1000 calorie pack. This time I showed him how the zipper worked.

When I got home, I implored Jim to call a Spanish-speaking friend who could translate over the speaker phone on his Blackberry and drive down the street to meet Martinez for himself. While he's at it, let's bungee roll a bedspread, a pair of jeans, socks, shirt, and offer him a coat Jim's not using anymore. Before we head out, I wash a couple of tangerines and a pear and place them in a paper sack.

But now Martinez is not there.

Jim and I duck into the nearby fast food restaurant and ask the people there if they know Martinez. They do. They don't know him by name, but they know who I'm talking about. They tell us that they give him water and sometimes they sell him food with the money motorists hand him. That's good. I feel hopeful.

We decide to hang around for a few minutes and see if he turns up. At the end of my grilled chicken sandwich, he does. He's back on his bench and so we drive over, call our friend, and ask him to explain to Martinez the options he has for shelter and care. Does he want to go?

Oh, and can he use this bed roll and clothing?

No?...Is there anything he needs?

He tells Jim, "socks." Just the socks. So we give him the socks.

After a bit of one-way conversation about the shelter options, Martinez apparently says yes, he would like to go. But he makes no motion toward that end. He just sits, dipping bread chunks into a can of black beans. Jim and I hang up with the friend and begin to discuss our options. Should we request a Spanish-speaking police officer to come transport him? Should Jim drive him over? Where is it? The main shelter isn't answering the phone today.

Meanwhile, Martinez doesn't actually seem interested in going. Did he even understand what our friend was telling him?

As we spoke to one another--Jim and me--Martinez inexplicably picked up only one of the few food bags that had accumulated on his bus bench, and walked away. He didn't look back. He didn't say bye. He just...walked..away.

I think we were uninvited guests who wouldn't leave--and...so he did. Which is kind of funny and embarrassing all at the same time.

So, I am relieved to remember this lesson. Not everyone wants what I have. Some folks choose their unenviable circumstances purposefully. They do not want to be rescued.

And maybe that was the catch this week. Maybe it wasn't a lack of selflessness that kept me from taking in Martinez--maybe it was a lack of calling.

Because greater love has no one than this...

(A continuation of yesterday's story.)

The first time I saw him he was strolling in front of what used to be the Indian restaurant down the way. I thought he was just another hippie. It didn't really surprise me to see him; the make up of our side of town took on a new character right around the time that Katrina hit New Orleans and a fair amount of its flooded-out residence fled here.

Within the week, I saw him again. It was more clear this time that he was walking the streets aimlessly, carrying nothing at all, wearing exactly what he had been wearing earlier in the week. He was not a "hippie." He was homeless.

Driving by, I found myself completely unprepared to help. No cash. No snacks. Nothing.

And so, we did what we knew to do. Something we had done before.

This year's 1000-calorie packs included nutritious and delicious snack food...

basic hygiene products like toothpaste and deodorant...

and some comfort items like gum and Chapstick...

We packed 10 bags, and loaded 2 of them into the car.

And Wednesday, on the way home from our outing downtown--to see the Nutcracker, to eat at Shilo's, to take a boat ride, to tour a Catholic Church, to come face to face with the least of these--we saw him. He wasn't walking around this time. He was sitting on a bus stop bench in my neighborhood. I turned into the adjacent parking lot so that I could drive up along side the man who had inspired us to prepare, and motioned Fifi to hand me one of the bags.

"Give me the good one--the one with the tuna lunch and cliff bar."

He was on his feet and already coming toward me as I rolled down my window to hand it out to him. I tried not to show my shock at the realization that he was not a black man as I had assumed from afar. Up close, I could see he was hispanic. He was caked and dark with grime and also in desperate need of a nail clipping, haircut and shower. He took the bag, bowed his head as if to say, "thank you," and went back to his bench a few steps away. When he turned around, it was clear, too, that he needed a change of clothing.

And that was it.

I started to drive away when I remembered that I had forgotten to add water to the bags. I had thought to once, but hadn't followed through right away, and the idea flew out of my head.

"Do you need some water?" I called out.

He jumped up, sat back down and somehow signaled in the affirmative without actually saying a word.

"I'll go get some and be right back." Rather than go to a store and drag everyone in, taking so long that maybe he'd be gone by the time I got back, I stopped at a corner store and bought what they had to offer. Vitamin water or Green Tea--this store had no regular bottled water. I chose the water and prayed that it wouldn't disagree with his system.

When I got back into the car, I started running the question over in my head. Where does this man get water? I can't imagine that the local restaurants, even fast food, would allow him to enter their establishments. Is there a hose behind one of the businesses that he can access? Do people give him bottles as they pass by?

He's not asking for money. There's no sign, no set up. This guy is the real deal, and it makes me think about things I haven't thought about before. Real things like food, water, warmth, tooth brushing, body odor, underwear and bathroom breaks.

I hadn't answered any of these questions for myself before I got back to the bus bench to deliver his bottled water. He stood up, came over, and took the bottle from my hand. I was horribly aware by now of how inadequate my offering was in the face of his need, and I invited him to assuage my guilt with a reassurance that he knew of our city's available services and that he had somewhere to sleep.

He didn't actually say yes as much as he nodded his head. I asked him what his name was and he paused to search for it, it seemed. I think he doesn't speak English.

"Martinez," he said. And he didn't seem crazy. Or mean.

I think I needed him to seem crazy. Or mean.

"I'll pray for you, Martinez."

Before he got back to the bench I looked beyond him to see if he was making use of the bag we gave him minutes earlier. I was not prepared for what I saw, and I'm not sure why it struck me as such a blow. Martinez had ripped into that gallon-sized Ziploc bag like an animal, leaving a gaping whole on one side and rendering the bag completely useless to carry its other items.

He did not know how to unzip the bag.

The four of us girls spent the rest of the ride home listening to me think aloud to myself about what I had just seen. Will Martinez be able to figure out how to open the Starkist Lunch-To-Go albacore and crackers? Is he going to know what to do with the deodorant stick or will he mistake it for food? Will he be able to keep hold of the Chapstick tube for the worst of the cold, dry days coming this winter?

*Sigh* Oh Lord Jesus, have mercy on Martinez!

And have mercy on me.

For the rest of the day, I am too disturbed to speak. I apologetically brush off my girls, but they understand. They were there. They are confused too.

I am painfully aware of my ability to help. My extra bedroom. The extra 3/4ths bath that our home boasts. Enough food. Even matresses to spare. I am also painfully aware of why I am not helping.

I am...unwilling.

Instead, I choose my safety over Martinez' shower. I choose my girls' protection over Martinez' shelter. I choose my peace of mind over Martinez' dinner. I choose us over him.

And it busts my heart wide open because I can't repent. I can't do it any other way. I am faced with the harsh reality that I am selfish and I need a savior.

Jesus is my Savior.

And I will ask Him to send along another pilgrim to help Martinez. One who is sensitive, equipped, and...willing.

Because He is able. I know He is able. I know my Lord is able to carry him through.

It is so cold here tonight.

...than one lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13

Discovering that my love is not great...

This morning, we got up too early to join our homeschool group in the glass lobby of the Lila Cockrell Theater.

We were there to sit audience for the dress rehearsal of the Nutcracker ballet. The opening scene isn't part of the deal, but we only pay $5 for a ticket--so there are no complaints. The girls were decked out in their prettiest Christmas-colored garb and happy enough to sit around for a half hour waiting to be seated because they were waiting with fun, new friends.

After the production, we walked down the block and ate lunch at Shilo's Delicatessen. It's closed eight out of ten times that we try to stop in--usually evenings and Sundays--but they were open today! I was pleasantly surprised at my vegetarian croissant sandwich, but the little girls didn't care much for their potato pancakes and applesauce.

As we ate, our attention was turned to three young servicemen in camouflage studying the menu outside our booth window. They debated among themselves for a long while before coming in for a round of lunch specials and water. Twenty minutes later our hearts were warmed to see them file past the register without stopping to pay because another patron had picked up their tab anonymously.

As we left, Cuddlebug meekly inquired about a boat ride on the Riverwalk. A mild day, nowhere we have to be, a resident discount, no lines and three sweet smiles quietly awaiting my answer. It was the perfect storm. This is their victory procession to the ticket stand where I will have to borrow $15 cash money from my 8-year old because they're not taking debit today.

I do not know why my 8-year old is carrying around $15 cash money. We keep emptying that wallet into safer places, and it keeps filling up with money--like the widow and her oil. I blame the grandmas.

Back on street level, we ducked into St. Joseph's Downtown Church. It was beautifully adorned with tapestries, paintings and stained glass as was the way to share the Gospel with worshippers before publishing and literacy were commonplace. The beautiful sanctuary was also riddled with at least a dozen life-sized statues, and Fifi's demeanor gave me concern.

I worried that she might be sick or faint dead away before we left.

We reverently walked the perimeter of the room, not daring to sit in a pew, and came upon a man unpacking his bedroll and backpack on a bench. As he wriggled his left arm out of its strap, I took note that his shirt was ripped the length of his torso. Clearly, this place was more his home than mine, and so I said nothing and continued on my way to the exit.

We passed the "poor boxes," and swiped a tourist information sheet on the way out.

Thinking back, I don't know why it didn't occur to me in the moment to give the girls some bills or coins to slide into those boxes. They kept asking about the boxes. They whispered about the boxes. They noticed every one of the boxes.

"Mommy, why does that say "poor box?"

"Mommy, how do you put money in there without a key for the lock?"

Once at the back of the sanctuary, another homeless man held the door for us. I greeted him with a smile and a "good afternoon," but we must have been too close, still, to the sacred place because he did not respond.

Back on the curb again, Fifi strung together her impressions the best she could. It sounded something like, "Mommy, people like that would never think to come into any of our churches."

It is sad and she is right. Our churches are all locked. There is no steeple. There are no people. We are grieved and talk through our feelings. Inaccessibility in the protestant church is a hard truth to swallow. Especially when it's coupled with childish indignation at the idea of taxes going toward government-sponsored social programs. My question then becomes, "O.k. then, Christian--what are you doing about it?"

And on our way home, we exited the freeway near our suburban neighborhood, and I met a man who busted my heart wide open...

to be continued

Dumpling's Very First Recital

My Aching Womb...

I don't mean to be greedy, LORD...

But if You will give me the strength and health to do it again, I will. After all, I'm not quite as old as Sarah, and Jim isn't near as old as Abraham.

I know I should be grateful for the ones I've had...and have...and I am--but how could I not want to do it all over again when I come across a moment like this?

Dumpling and Cuddlebug, 2003

Wordless Wednesday: Freeze. Right there. *sniffle*

The Difference Between Deference and Doormat

This is Patience, our beagle, and Georgie our kitten.

Patience is bigger than Georgie, stronger than Georgie and louder than Georgie. Patience was here before Georgie. And that is Patience's bed, not Georgie's. In every way, Patience has the power and the privilege to claim that bed.

But here, Patience is exercising a more awesome power. The power to defer--the privilege to be meek.

O.k....so, they're animals. I know. The world would be a better place if it was as easy to catch a picture of people behaving so well.

...but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves.
Philippians 2:3b

Blessed are the meek... Matthew 5:5a