True Worship

For me true worship happens
In silence at my seat
When I take the words within my heart
Give them meter, rhyme and feet

I honor best my love for You
In the turning of a phrase
To me iamb pentameter
Is just another form of praise

And when my heart is lonely
Too weighted down with care
Measured, structured haiku
Becomes my avenue of prayer

And as joy explodes within me
That cannot be contained
Then free verse flowing, tumbling
Cries out Your glory to exclaim

O Lord, Your unique creation

Has tied stanzas 'round my soul

Wrapped in words, adorned with adjectives

A lyric offered makes me whole

Although others may need music-

And though I sing along-

When my words pour forth in poetry

It is my truest worship song

Fascination of Boys

What is it about boys? Why are they hard-wired to be messy, loud, violent and so, well...male? Today, sick with a cold and dealing with a bout of laryngitis which has stolen my scream, was reminder after reminder of the strange fascinations of my sons.

First, mud. It rained today, and in the cold Michigan almost-winter, outside was not an option. Why, then, did my 20-month old insist on following his father past the porch in the rain? He was sans socks, and appeared appalled when the cold, wind and wet struck his bare feet. Despite this, retreating back indoors was not on his agenda. What better occupation in the freezing rain than making mud pies with bare toes?

Second, toilets. And toilet brushes. This might become a useful skill one day, but for now I am growing weary of finding my too-silent toddler happily occupied with splashing toilet water all over the walls by alternately dipping and flinging the toilet brush in and out of the bowl. I confess, nothing else was likely to motivate me to clean the bathroom today, given my cold. Nevertheless, UGH!

Third, food. My five year-old boy is a bottomless pit. I mean, even constant eating is not enough to satisfy him. "Could I have a snack?" "I want more!" "Can you get me a drink?" I despair of my dwindling grocery supply, and it is only Wednesday. Not to mention that his little brother is beginning to mimic him. With his limited vocabulary, he begs me "Some! Some!" Pointing to the treats on top of the refrigerator, he tries repeatedly to convince me to let him choose one (or two.)

Fourth, guns. Why is it that little boys instinctively know what sounds a car, an ambulance, and a gun make? For five long years we resisted allowing our boy to have a toy gun. Finally, after resigning ourselves to the fact that every block, stick and rod he came across was, in his imagination, already a gun, we allowed him to have one. Immediately, his little brother grabbed the plastic piece, took aim, and announced "pew, pew!"

Fifth, mommy. Mostly, I love having two mommy's boys. The way they cuddle and kiss melts my heart after a hard day. But when I'm sick, I want my space. One of today's major challenges was disentangling myself from a blanket of boys as they lay on me, crowded me, or crawled across me. I was overwhelmed by their needs, their energy, and the mess of toys that surrounds my boys like a tornado circling a trailer park.

Finally, I put them in bed and head for my own. Tired, voiceless, dreading work tomorrow (how will I manage that, anyway?) I make one last round as I turn of lights and lock doors. I gaze at their still, sleeping forms. There they are, my maddening little men. Curled, cute, quiet. Ah, the fascination of my boys!

"He who overcomes shall inherit these things,

and I will be his God,

and he will be My son."

--Revelation 21:7

Day Five--Still Alive

We are surviving our week without the other older members of the family. We are surviving--but just barely.

With the teenager and husband gone, all the household chores have fallen squarely on my shoulders. My oldest is usually responsible for the dishes, and without her here I have had to handle that without help. I confess to cheating a bit by using paper plates, but have run the dishwasher twice when it got full. I find the fifteen minutes to load or empty is far from the full-hour she makes the task take. When she returns, I will be glad to hand back the dishes, but will insist that she knock off the drama!

I am still figuring out what the husband usually does around here. He is great in a crisis such as we had last week when the bathroom suddenly needed an overhaul, but as far as day-to-day details, I'm not sure that there are any set expectations. So far, I haven't been hearing a mental mantra of "He should be doing this!" I am undecided if this is a good thing or not. On the one hand, I haven't been as irritated with his absence. On the other, I wonder if I've been a little too lax on insisting he help!

Its the kids that are my main stress this week. I know parenting is a 24/7 deal, but that seems to be true only if you are the mommy. The constant demands on my time and attention are wearing thin. I miss being able to hand them off to the teenager for twenty minutes to take a shower. I long to leave for a few hours knowing it is daddy's turn to deal with the toddlers for a time.

I am sure that somewhere in the Guiness Book of Records there are some impressive survival statistics. Somebody who was trapped underground for a week, or lost at sea for six days or something equally astounding. I doubt, however, that surviving 5 days of single-parenthood takes its appropriate place in those hallowed halls of fame. I have no doubt, however, that if the editors of the Guiness Book borrowed my kids for most of a week, we would see a literary revolution of published records.

Most Amazing Mommy Awards:

Michigan mom stops screaming for 30 full seconds!

Champion single-mom changes record 482 diapers daily!

Mommy buried by bills, babies, and other burdens found still alive on day five!

In the midst of everything, I find I miss the presence of the ones I love more than their assistance with the daily challenges of life. I realize that I love them no matter what they do or do not do for me. I will be glad to hug the daughter who does my dishes. I want to hold the husband who has no chores. And the three smaller kids? I love them too. I just have to find a way to enjoy their presence as much as I miss that of the others.

"Every good and perfect gift is from above,

coming down from the Father of lights,

with Whom there is no variation or shifting shadow."

--James 1:17

Left Behind--Day One

I've been abandoned. Both my husband and teenager have left me. One has gone west for eight days to boat with a buddy; the other headed south for seven. I was left behind. My duty: to care for and entertain the three youngest members of the family--ages 5, 3, and 1.

I was left a modest budget within which to accomplish said entertainment. Given that the past week has entailed a complete--and completely unexpected--remodel of our bathroom, I was grateful to have a few funds to take the kids out. Unfortunately, only hours after the spouse split, half my entertainment budget was sucked away by the need to rent a carpet cleaner. A particularly nasty mess became a singularly discouraging beginning to my week of single-parenthood. Add to that an ambitious friend, who encouraged me to tackle an incomplete project, and its "goodbye" to going out.

My emotional reserves are as fragile as my finances. This past week has already sapped my strength; slogging the upcoming one solo simply exhausts me further. Even with distractions by daddy, the little ones and I are often in melt-down mode by dinner. Bedtime around here means repeated trips upstairs to tuck in the toddler and tame the rage of the crib-caged baby. Although I have survived the occasional evening, I feel less than confident that I can cope with the chaos for a week sans assistance.

A little emotional distance and spiritual refreshment are definitely in order. I planned to tuck myself into my nine o'clock ice cream, and subsequently into my bed with my Bible. Unfortunately, my peaceful space for reflection was invaded by my youngest son. His scathing screams were impossible to ignore so I took pity on his brother and removed the little guy from their shared room. I'd normally get angry at him, but he was only expressing what I am repressing: the deep desire to share my fear and frustration with the world. Despite circumstances which demanded I forgo the Good Book and instead say goodnight, God had just enough time to remind me that, unlike my sight-seeing spouse and my traveling teen, He is always here.

"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them,

for the Lord your God goes with you.

He will never leave you nor forsake you."

--Deuteronomy 31:6

Welcome to Monday

Monday, Monday. Can't trust that day! On Monday morning you gave me no warnin' of what was to be...

Speaking of which, this Monday was more interesting than most. It involved a CAT scan, a shocker, and a transfer. Of course, this Monday actually began on Saturday.

Saturday was Mom's first day home from the hospital in a month. A recent recipient of an eight-day stint on a vent, an open-lung biopsy and miraculous recovery from a very rare lung disease, mom decided to spend the day in bed. ALL day, in bed. She neither ate, nor drank. She took no meds. By the time I got the emergency call at dinner that she needed help, she was nearly incoherent and should have called 911 instead of me. Thirty minutes later, after flying to her house via the freeway, I did the honors myself. There was no chance she could even walk to the car.

I spent the wee hours of Sunday freezing in a folding chair in the hospital ER as I waited for them to make a decision about her condition. That in itself is a whole other kettle of fish, and the experience stunk about as badly. The chest x-ray revealed a relapse of her lung condition, so she was sentenced to captivity on the third floor and I was free to go home to bed.

Thus continues Monday, except that eventually it becomes officially Monday. More tests. The CAT scan report reads in part "surgical implements remain within the chest cavity, possible sponge, surgical clip or clump of staples." Our general response: "You have GOT to be kidding!"

Mom never does anything expected. She has the most bizarre things happen to her. She had a stroke in her eye once. Nowhere else, just her eye. She has a lung disease so strange it took two hospitals two weeks to diagnose it. And now, out of the 28.4 million surgeries performed annually in the US, mom is one of the mere 1500 who get something left in her.

As Monday becomes Tuesday, the situation is a bit more clear. Apparently the "surgical implement" is a clip which is meant to be there to hold her lung tissue together. Still, in the continuing saga of this sickness, it would have been nice to know this prior to its appearance as an artifact on an x-ray.

Lest all this drama be unnecessarily wasted, I've begun wondering what artifacts may be revealed if I were to take a spiritual CAT scan. I think fear and general grumpiness would probably show up as blinding-white infiltrate. Perhaps I'd better call the Great Physician and get them excised immediately. Maybe He will install some kind of clip in me as well--I could really use the help holding it all together right now.

Preaching to the Choir

"It is so strange how sometimes life just takes us over and makes us its own. I mean, we're supposed to live day-by-day as strangers just passing through this world on our way to heaven, and yet this place, this existence, grabs hold of us by our t-shirts and has a way of shaking us until we can't ignore it anymore. That's what it has felt like this week, anyway."

These are the first phrases in that infamous 'book' I'm supposed to be writing. As for the book, they are probably a terrible beginning, but in review, they are so deeply true of my life. At the time, I was describing the loss of a pet. Recently--meaning today--I find the aspects of life grabbing and shaking me are ones even uglier than death.

I am in the process of seeing clearly the depth of unforgiveness, jealousy, hatred and fear residing within me. You'd think I would have explored all this the past several weeks waiting for a miracle for my mom. Nope. I clung like duct tape to God through all that. So what does He do? Send me a whole new set of circumstances that truly tests my character. And I'm failing miserably.

The book continues...

"This journey isn't really about the pain and grief of loss. Maybe our whole journey of life is about the people and places and things we give the pieces of our eternal selves to. And what experiences in our lives influence how well, how often, how completely we do that giving. We were built to withstand the grief that comes with the territory of loving, because that was God's grandest gift to us. He sent His Son to die in our place because when He counted the cost, love would gain more than it lost.

It can be a long way to travel, sometimes, on the trail to true love. Not the romantic kind of love, which is clouded over with the idiosyncrasies of people, but love that really speaks of God's character. So many of the great passages that comfort us from the Scripture were forged in the darkest suffering the authors knew. The places where they truly saw themselves, and then looked toward God.

My own journey has taken me down a trail tailored by sorrow. Many of you, too, have been down paths that give you the dubious privilege of being able to identify with the psalmist's phrase 'the valley of the shadow of death.' If you have already found the path up from that valley, let me rejoice with you. Let us share what we know of the places we all have walked and delight one another with the deliverance of God. If you are still there, in that time of weighty darkness pressing in on your soul, let's pray together for just a single ray of light that leads to the Savior and the wonders He can do with the travels you are struggling through. Be guided by a moment by something--SomeOne--greater than your circumstance, and see the grand hope that a God who redeems can, and does, provide."

Ever heard the phrase 'preaching to the choir?' In this case, I am both the preacher and the choir. It drives me crazy when people use my own words against me...even if that person is God. Now, how in the world do I go about pursuing a love that reflects His character? Love that gives wholly and fully not because it feels wonderful, but because there is a deeper, hidden joy in the sacrifice of choosing what does not come naturally. How do I love the circumstances that are shaking me to the core? How to I embrace the source of the sorrow? How do I change my tune from sarcasm to song? How do I regain that grand hope in God?

I suppose if this 'book' of mine had the answers to those questions, I could actually sell the thing!

"In the multitude of my anxieties within me,

Your comforts delight my soul"

-Psalm 94:19

Hakuna Matata

Hakuna Matata. "It's our problem-free philosophy," so says the song. "It means no worries for the rest of our days. Hakuna matata!"

Let me just say here that I think the Lion King has gotten it all wrong. Sitting in Bible study tonight gave me a whole new perspective on the worry issue. I needed one because I--like most, I imagine--am far from worry-free.

Take my friend, for example, who is moving out of her house in two weeks and a day...but has no idea where she is moving to. Or another friend who is facing job insecurity. Or another whose husband needs potentially life-saving surgery. Or yet another who has been going through scary tests on her 7-month old baby. And I won't even get started on all the worrying I've done the past three weeks. No worries?!? No way!

And yet the passage we read in Matthew chapter 6 seems to demand that very thing. "Why do you worry for your life, as to what you will eat or what you will drink?" (verse 25). Uh, God, I worry cause I NEED that stuff! But instead He asks us to make a trade. Our troubles traded for complete trust. Our worries for His watchcare.

Sounds simple, until I think about watching my mom almost die. Hakuna matata seems to be based on lack of worry due to lack of care. If we love nothing, strive for nothing, seek nothing, then we have nothing to stress over. I however, love deeply, strive for more than I will possibly ever achieve, and seek reassurance over everything from the weather to the future. So do most of the people I know. It's why my girlfriend worries about my toddler falling down the stairs despite the fact that he lives in a tri-level house and mastered the art about half his life ago. She cares. And I don't want her to quit.

Hakuna matata sings out that care-free Caribbean concept that it will all turn out. "No problem, man." To me, though, God asks something so much deeper and harder. He asks that I trust Him enough with the things I do care about to let go of my attempts to control the outcome. To see His purpose for my pain. To trust in His provision for my problem. To seek His strength in the midst of the stress. This principle...well, command actually...is the direct opposite of laissez faire. Instead of a lack of restriction, God requires that we relinquish our requests and let Him rule. That we submit to His supremacy, even when we care deeply about His potential decision.

Honestly, the study went on for another several verses. I remain floored by the first. Does He realize how much faith He wants from me? Do I even believe in "letting go and letting God"? And yet, the question fills me: What did I do to make my mom breathe again? I prayed. Oh, how I prayed! But I was powerless. God holds our very breath and life in His hand. And hasn't He just proven how trustworthy He is? There is no way to live out the "do not worry" of Matthew 6 unless I daily practice the "walk by faith" of 2 Corinthians 5.

For me, and dare I suggest for any Christian, Hakuna Matata is a poor theme song indeed. Perhaps better suited is a much older song. This one goes:

When peace like a river attendeth my way

When sorrows like sea-billows roll

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say

It is well, It is well, With my soul.

Now that takes faith. To care deeply, love completely, and still yield. My mom's waking words remind me that having a faith free from worry rests on God alone. May He teach me gently how to live it!

"Be still, and know that I am God..."

--Psalm 46:10a

The Valley of the Shadow

So much for my renewed commitment to keep up my writing. I admit I haven't even thought about the blog, or my email, or facebook or any such thing in the past couple of weeks. I've spent my time...well, occupied.

Mostly, I've been pacing the ICU waiting room at the not-so-local hospital while my mom hovered near death from some unidentified illness. She went in on day one with "pneumonia" and on day seven was placed on a ventilator, had a lung collapse, and sent into a medically-induced coma from which we didn't know if she would ever awake. It was like living an episode of that medical show, House, where the weirdest illnesses almost kill every patient before they find the right treatment.

Needless to say, blogging was far from foremost in my thoughts. Heavenly communication trumped all as I prayed like crazy for God to give my mom another chance. I recited the Twenty-third Psalm to mom (and myself, I suppose) repeatedly as she lay there, very literally in the "valley of the shadow of death."

The blessing came early in week three of her illness. The day she re-learned how to breathe on her own. I celebrated with tears and tremedous praise. A couple more days passed and she could speak and smile at me. Reunion! Relief!

She is now at the rehab hospital, learning just how weak she has become and how strong she still is. I have to appreciate all the care she is being given, but the thing that has impacted me the most is how very involved God is in our lives. He watched over me while I worried, took care of my family when I spent most waking moments away from them, and best of all woke Mom both physically and spiritually.

I have discovered that in that valley where darkness and death are so very, very near, the Shadow that triumphs is the one cast by God's presence as He covers us. Surely His goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life--and my mom's!

"Even though I walk through the

valley of the shadow of death,

I fear no evil; for Thou art with me;

Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me....

Surely goodness and mercy will follow me

all the days of my life,

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord

forever."

--Psalm 23:4,6

Back to the Book

My book is in there, staring at me. Silently accusing me. I see it, I feel it. And it is making me crazy.

Currently it is an essay of sorts, 60 pages in total, most of which probably needs to be edited out. It is not an outline, or a plot construct, or anything else useful. It is my life, and it is preachy and wordy and I hate it.

It needs all sorts of work. Major work. The kind they do on Extreme Home Makeover. Where they destroy everything they started with and create something new and beautiful in its place. That is what my "book" needs; but I feel it in there, almost a living thing willing me to allow it to breathe. Now I sound creepy.

It could be because it is after 3 am. I should be sleeping. Who knew Starbucks made such strong coffee? I am not normally a caffeine drinker, and never thought twice about a venti at 8:30 at night. Now I sit here at the computer instead of snuggled in my bed. And on the one night in a week my youngest has slept through the night, too. My caffeine high will probably drain away about the time he decides to wake up.

So, what do my thoughts turn to at 3 am? The current sitcom? The list of things that need to be done tomorrow? People to pray for? Sure, those too. But what I really think about is that pathetic manuscript I keep in the closet. I haven't even looked at it in months. Haven't looked at this blog in months, either, actually. But my mind drifts back to it. It settles on me sometimes when I should be sleeping that I am missing the mark in this matter.

I was born to write. I know it, although the Lord alone knows why. I've got a story. I just have flat out no idea what it is...or how to tell it. If you were to take your life, choose a central theme for it, fictionalize it, create a cast of believable but not identifiable characters, throw in some conflict, a hero, and end with happily-ever-after....what would yours look like? No clue? Me either. If you've got some ideas, let me know so I can steal them.

And if you've stored up some spare moments of sleep, let me know that too. I have a feeling that I'll be wanting to steal them as well, when tomorrow....I mean today....rolls around.

Just like Judas

This morning's Sunday School lesson was difficult for me. I was portraying Judas Iscariot, the betrayer of Jesus. I screamed and yelled as I voiced his frustrations. Three years, wasted! Following a Messiah who refused to act! Who gathered no army! Who would never take the reigns from Rome! Judas, who determined the only way to get his way was to betray Him. Who ate bread that Christ Himself dipped in wine, and then left to rat Him out. Who took 30 pieces of silver and gave them God.

I became Judas, who fell to the ground with the others when Jesus merely spoke His name. Judas, who watched Him captured, tortured, and killed. Judas, whose heart was blackened by lies, by greedy desires, and by a betrayal that could never be undone. Judas, whose master plan unraveled as the Master that he'd served slowly died.

As I finished my skit, I fled the room just as I imagine Judas might have. Running from the scene, the sin, the Savior. I finally sat on the cold concrete floor, crying. The reality of my own sin, my lies, my many betrayals stung me. I am Judas, the betrayer. I am the one who sold God to Satan for the sake of my own ambitions. I am just like him...

Except for hope. I sat there, knowing how much I deserve hatred. Knowing how impossible it is to undo my sin. And knowing that God Himself sees it all. He sees me and He knows...O the things He knows. I felt the whole weight of darkness, the darkness that must have pressed in on Judas, pressing down on me too. Except for hope. The hope of Easter which reminds me that death doesn't conquer, that God triumphs over betrayal. That He loves. He heals. He forgives.

Today in my lesson, I felt the whole horror of that Good Friday as I saw myself in the role of the villian. Then these words in Romans came to my mind. They seeped like a salve into my soul. I am so blessed that for me, even though so much of me is just like Judas, every day is Easter. I pray that it will be true for you, too.

"There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

For the law of the Spirit of life in Jesus Christ

has set you free from the law of sin and death."

--Romans 8:1-2

Priceless

No Mere Man

The night of betrayal

Silent and still

As Jesus knelt praying

for the Father's will

.

His friends and followers

Asleep by the trees

While sweatdrops and teardrops

Accompanied pleas

.

Then clatter and horror

A cohort from Rome

Quickens the darkness

They rise with a groan

.

The betrayer at hand

Gives the kiss of death

The angels of God

Must be holding their breath

.

The Creator and Savior

Asks "Whom do you seek?"

Knowing the answer

Before they even speak.

.

"The Nazarene" is the shout

And then comes His reply

"You have found him," says Jesus

"It is I"

.

In the man named Jesus

What they'd sought and found

They did not even know

Til they fell to the ground

.

They had come before

The great I AM

Though dressed only in robes

In the form of a man

.

And felled by the power

In just His name

Those soldiers were stunned

And gasped in pain

.

It must have been minutes

Until they could rise

It must have been murder

That light in their eyes

.

For they bound Him and took Him

To an illegal trial

And they had to have known

The entire while

.

That a simple "I am"

From a mere man is naught

That He had to be God

And He chose to be caught

.

That for their very own souls

He willingly walked

Away from that hill

And went to the cross

.

And it pierces my heart

How He died on that tree

Like the soldiers I fall

When He says "I am He"

.

For there is no other name

with power to save

He was no mere man

Who our sins forgave

***

"And there is salvation in no one else;

for there is no other name under heaven

that has been given among men

by which we must be saved."

--Acts 4:12

Uninspired

Kid birthday pictures. Grocery shopping. Pineapple salsa. Green chino curtains.

These are the sorts of things that occupy my mind and time. Well, those and destroying the kitchen cupboards while attempting to spruce them up by changing the drawer pulls. Who knew chipboard was so fragile? My husband is NOT going to be happy.

In the midst of the million and one details of the day, I am finding it a challenge to channel any creativity at all. What in the world is worth mention in my mundane life? At the moment, nothing newsworthy springs to mind.

Except maybe spring itself. The tulips are showing a bit today. That little spark of green amid the mud and muck speaks hope into my winter-weary heart. But today I can't even find a paragraph for the tulips. A line is my limit.

Laundry machine buzzing. Baby crying. Dog whining. Dirty dishes waiting.

Always some sort of obligation pending. I feel like my words have been pressed out, leaving me like a dried olive husk. The richness of their oil is sauteeing the peppers for the pineapple salsa, but nothing remains within me to season my story.

House Fire

Ever been asked that question "If your house was on fire, and everyone was out safe, what three things would you rescue?" I have, and I've always given what I thought were well-considered answers. Photos of my kids, the bookshelf my grandpa built, my Bible. Well, the past two months have taught me this: I was wrong.

Somewhere around Christmas time, I lost my wedding rings. Now, this would be a tragedy for any wife, but I was in particular angst since the wedding bands my husband and I wear also belonged to my grandparents. These small gold circles already represent 50 years of commitment, love and honor. Add to those the 8 that we have worn them, and you have almost 60 years of history wrapped up in these rings. And I lost them.

I had recently put them on a chain around my neck. Pregnancies and arthritis have made it impossible to wear them on the intended finger, and although I can wear them on my pinky early in the day, by evening my hands are swollen so much that the rings cut off my circulation despite their relocation to the smallest digit. So, I decided the best and safest thing was to put them on chain so I wouldn't need to remove them and possibly misplace them. It was right after this decision that they went missing.

I mean, MISSING. I searched in the couch cushions, under the kids beds, in the laundry, behind and under every piece of furniture. I vacuumed the vents in case they had fallen down a register. I scoured my entire house. The lint trap in the dryer, the toy box, the top of the fridge. I prayed for my rings to return. After weeks of ineffective efforts, and bursting into tears every time a Kay Jeweler commercial came on, I began to wonder if they had been stolen. I was SURE I knew right where I had put that chain the last time I had taken it off...it would have been an easy target just hanging there.

You can't put a price on a person, but if you measured my value in money it couldn't be more than the diamond my husband gave me when he proposed. It is by far the most expensive thing I have ever actually owned (since our house, of course, is still technically owned by the bank). And although love is even more impossible to price than a person, I truly think that these wedding bands represent more heartache, and happiness, sacrifice and joy than any other objects we possess. Other than my children, they are the greatest gifts I have ever been given. And they were gone. Absolutely GONE.

Recently, my sweet spouse snaked the drains in the bathroom. The sinks have gone from slow flow to no flow in the past few months, and I have been on him to fix them. I confess to a secret hope that somehow inside one of the P-traps, there would be my rings. Well, they weren't there, but in the midst of handling this task on his honey-do list, he decided to make it a personal mission to find the rings. And, he did. Hidden in a cracked tile under the sinks...where, mind you, I had looked before. I don't even care that they weren't there when I cleaned in there a month ago, or a week ago, or three days ago. All that matters is that they are back. Around my neck. Where they have been non-stop for three days. I can't bring myself to take them off.

If my house was on fire, and I could rescue three things...two would be my rings. The past two months have taught me that God knows what He's saying when he tells us "Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." I never saw before how truly connected my heart was to my wedding rings. They are simply symbols, true. I didn't mourn their material value. I ached at the thought that so much history and love, such a real and physical reminder of it, was absent from my hand. God has given me the example of my Grandparents, their enduring love and faithfulness to one another, and to marriage itself. God has given me a husband who loves me so much he once poured out all his worldly wealth and put it on my finger. I missed them so much that I was just as excited to get them from him this second time as I was the first.

My third item? I dare not guess. God has blessed me with so many, many good things. I'm not sure I'd know what to choose anymore. I have discovered, though, that I need to pay closer attention to the things that hold my heart, to be sure my treasure is in the right place. How about you?

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth where moth and rust destroy, and thieves break in and steal.

But store up for yourselves treasure in heaven where moth and rust do not destroy and thieves do not break in and steal.

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

Matthew 6:19-21

Game of Life

Have you ever felt that your life was just not going as planned? That perhaps you missed an essential turn, or stumbled over one too many bad decisions on your course? This week, I feel like a failure at the game of life.

Literally. See, the local pharmacy has been hosting a "Game of Life" promotional for the past month and a half. Similar to a well-known fast food chain who offers "Monopoly" it was a simple matter of collecting tickets, pasting them on a gameboard and gloating over a new kitchen, a 10,000 dollar room makeover, or a cash prize. Woohoo!

I began buying all of my diapers (in my case, a significant expenditure) at said pharmacy. I began buying my bottle liners, and panty liners and eye liners there. I must confess their little promotional game worked well--for THEM. I collected my tickets faithfully, sped home, and slapped them on my game board. I accumulated 34 tickets. Unfortunately, I netted a whopping ZERO prizes.

In nearly every category, I am one shy of the win. No matter the 250,000 mortage or the $20 gift card, I lose by one ticket. One. Ticket. I must say that this mirrors my real life in a depressingly familiar way. It seems I am perpetually one payment late on the bills, one car shy in the drive, one month overdue for a date, one McFlurry too many to succeed at self-control, and one pound from losing a pound.

It takes a minute, and a little work, to remind myself that the pharmacy doesn't get to decide who the winners in life are. My missing tickets have become, I think, a distraction from the one thing that should most define me. My reminder came from the Holy One Himself:

"There is one body and one Spirit, just as also you were called in one hope of your calling;

one Lord, one faith, one baptism,

one God and Father of all who is over all, and through all and in all

but to each one of us grace was given according to the measure of Christ's gift"

--Ephesian 4:4-7

If I have been given grace according to the measure of Christ's gift, why am I whining about not winning a Wii? I may have missed out on a 2010 G37 Convertible Infiniti...but by God's grace I have won the prize of eternity! Woohoo!

Sled Dog

So, today, sick of illness and the indoors, I offered the kids the chance to have a fun family outing--sans dad, who is stuck at work--on the conditions that 1). it was something that all of us could do and 2). it was free.

It was a bit of a job, given the criteria. Since the kids range in age from 1 to 15 years, finding an activity that everyone can do is a challenge. Thankfully, the littlest ones seem eager to take on "big kid" adventures, and the oldest is sweet enough to have fun doing "little kid" stuff. Actually, the "free" part was the hardest to accomodate.

When someone popped up with the idea to go sledding, we settled on it immediately. We spent the next half hour dressing children until they resembled the little boy in Christmas Story who is wrapped in winter garb so thoroughly he can't even put his arms down to his sides. The PBC was particularly annoyed by this as he could do nothing but lie there and scream.

The next part of the adventure consisted of trying to find the sleds. After a fruitless search of the garage, the children confessed to having left them outside, somewhere under the mounds of snow. Wherever they are they remain, since despite shoveling most of the yard we never did locate them. Finally, we loaded up in the car--now sans dad and sleds--with a couple of stadium seat cushions and a garbage can lid. To top it all off, we also took the 75 pound dog with a ton of pent-up energy.

The sledding was somewhat less than successful. The garbage can lid was a bust. It failed to provide any forward motion despite the assistance of a rather steep hill. The little seat cushions were equal failures UNTIL we hooked up the dog to one of them. Suddenly, with a little canine encouragement, we had a speedy way down the hill. The kids were in love with the rough and tumble (and I do mean tumble!) way down the hill, and the dog got some perhaps unwanted--although desperately needed--exercise while playing sled dog.

Overall, a successful hour of entertainment. And only you other mothers out there know just how rare and wonderful such a thing is.