Is it That Day Again?

You know that day?
The day spring cleaning is planned,
the day that school is tossed out the window,
the day that you are GOING to accomplish something?

That was my day today.

Or so I thought.

My two year old fell and gashed her head open.
She's a bit accident prone.
No stitches necessary, praise the Lord.

No one would nap.

My four year old decided to not listen.

My son became obsessed with Adventure's in Odyssey and wouldn't focus on anything else.

Then, my two year old pooped all over the bath tub.

Defeat. Mass defeat. What was I doing? How did this happen and how in the world was I going to get anything done, ever, ever, EVER again?!?!?!

Uhmmmm, ever been there? It ain't pretty.
Amazing how the devil likes to drown us in disaster.

But, I have a covering.
He is my husband.
And he offers his hand and pulls me out of the pit when he sees me fast falling.

His hand is strong, and tender and knows just what I need.

I need the playroom reorganized.

1 hour later, it is clean, spacious, the heavy lifting, the heavy burden, done.

And I can breathe.

And know tomorrow is another day.

I thank the Lord that I have another chance to do it better.
I thank the Lord I have a husband who changed the course of chaos.
I thank the Lord that His mercy is new every morning.
And I pray that I will slow down from my desires and do what He has for me.
That I will seek Him early, and serve Him.

And I am Grieving

Just an hour ago, my Dad's voice is chipper, talking about my children,
he's rushed on the phone,
and then he interrupts himself.
"Grandpa is failing fast. I go back out tomorrow. It's a matter of days."
I knew Grandpa's end was coming, but the phone call found me dumb.
And I cried.

I love my Grandpa. I have lived with him, I have laughed with him and he knows all my secrets.

My Dad hurried off the phone, unable to process his own grief.

For the leaving of this earth means a journey somewhere else.
I do not know what my Grandpa believes.
He does not talk about such things.
But I do know that God is good.


Here it is though. The swelling of sadness in my soul. I know this ache. I have not finished processing the ache my son left. And while my Grandpa has lived a life full of family, full of love, full of greatness, full . . .
it is running its course.
for life inevitably brings death.
And I ache all the same.
This grief . . . this grief . . . this grief,
it is so very grave.


And yet . . .
there is life. Abundant.
It is life that never ends, life full of purpose, life with passion,
a life of praise, of worship, of love, of adoration,
life beyond the grave.


Psalms 100:4  Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name.

Being in Love . . . But?

I love my husband.

I mean, I really, really, love him.

A lot.

I bet you are waiting for the but . . .

But . . .

there isn't one.

Is he perfect?

Nope.

But he's fine.

He is funny.

He works hard.

He treats me well.

And he still loves me after my hormonal monster messes.

Yep, I love my husband.

Have you been loving yours lately?

Love is a choice. It isn't easy. Lust is easy and we have had plenty of that too. 

But love,
love . . .
agape . . .
laying down our desires, our very lives, for the needs, for the wants of another . . . even when they don't deserve it . . .
well, that is hard.

But that is where we come to the end of ourselves, where the flesh can die, and Christ can reign, where selfishness subsides and Peace can impart.

That is when we truly start to get a glimpse of heaven.
And my heaven is mighty fine.

I'm That Girl Too . . .

I wear skirts.
I have long hair.
I read my King James Bible.
I believe in God's blessing coming through the womb.
I homeschool.
I believe in submission to my husband.
I try to keep things simple.
I am hopelessly flawed.
I love digging in the dirt and cooking from scratch.
I am very conservative.
I like hymns and classical music.

And yet,

I like to watch HGTV.
I like Bruno Mars song "When I Was Your Man".
When my husband listens to country music, I like to dance with him.
The clothes women wore in the 40's make my heart flutter.
I love when my hubby buys me paper plates.
"So You Think You Can Dance" is my de-stressor at times.
I spend too much time on the computer.
I wish I had the body of the ladies in the magazines,
   (even though I really don't want to be them <wink>)
I sing too loud.
I talk to loud.
I talk too much.
And I second guess myself a hundred times a day.

I am a woman who wants nothing else but to please my Lord. I want to walk in His ways.
I search Him out.


And I am just a girl, He created, enjoying the life He has given me, in my very human, very flawed, little way.

Dandelion Spring

The grass is peaking through the ground. Poking and prodding dry, refreezing earth. It's happy green grows on me. 
I smile more when I play in the dirt.
And my children play in the dirt too. Lots.
Muddy shoes bless my floor. Grass stained skirts get scrubbed again and again. And jeans never keep their knees.
But in the excitement, little hands bring, the first yellow, the first orange, the first of spring.
"Momma, I picked these for you."
First, its Hazel.
Then 10 minutes later its James.
And before playtime is over Norma has brought me some too.
Little Mary runs around in delight, too young to think to pick them. She just lets them tickle her nose.
But what to do with my bountiful bouquet?
In a glass they are too short. Topped off, too small to see.
In a vase, they are swallowed, not ever to reach their grand giftedness.
In a bowl they drown.
At a thrift store, I hear my Norma, "Momma?"
"Yes?" I turn and look and she's there, holding a vase no bigger than my pinkie.
"This would be perfect for all the flowers we pick you!"
And it is. 10 cent miracle.
A home for my treasures, that grace my table during the sunshine season. That remind me, I am loved.
Oh how grateful, oh how blessed, to have this home of happiness.

Flea Market Flip

So, this is a bit off the beat and path for me but I wanted to share a show I am loving watching! Flea Market Flip. Yep, it is a bit heathen of me to enjoy such a carnal show, turning old junk into treasures and competing in sales, but I really enjoy it. And I really want to do it! Not the show I mean. But the flea marketing and flipping. <hee hee> I have no real skills but I do have a mind to look at things in a different way.
One big constraint though, trying to fit it all in. Homeschooling, cleaning, cooking, bathing. (Yes, I do think that is a daily priority and I happen to be a homeschool mom. If you homeschool or have littles you know what I am talking about!) (Oh and one more thing, shhhhhh, I like to go to the bathroom by myself. Yep, I make it a priority not to have my littles with me on this very important occasion.) <wink>
So, where was I, oh yes, Flea Market Flip. Fun stuff when you just need a little lightness in your day.

Seeing the Doctor

I went to his office. The man who delivered my boy, saved my life and cried with me as the little man lost his. I went in search of answers, in search of truth, and on some level closure.
"Can we have another?" The question rings hard. Pounds my chest tight, breath taken soft.
"Yes, you can, and with medical help, chance of recurrence is only 3%," he answers.
Husband looks like stars, my mouth drops deep. "Really?"
Really.
He spends an hour with us, talking in words far beyond my scope. Explaining what happened, explaining chances of our future. All I hear is,
"His Mercy Endures Forever."
I do not know what the future holds, whether this body is a willing vessel for new life. I do not know what God will speak to my husbands heart. I do not know if He will choose to breathe life allowing me to assist Him in a perfect miracle.
Because all babies are miracles, fingerprinted by the Lord.
And I feel grateful that I have gotten to birth 5 of them.

Today

Today, I lost my patience. Raised my voice, and let 'em down.
My husband though, in all his loveliness, told me this was not who I was as a Mother and that I could rebound. And I did.
And it made me ask again, "Who am I?"
The question that is asked by so many in our self obsessed culture. The question that really has no merit of importance, no pertinence, no lasting pleasure.
No, "Who am I?" is not the question that makes my heart pound pretty, my countenance smile rainbows, or my words spill honeydew.
No, the question that echo's in my selfish moments, calling back to me, when I focus in, is "Who does He want me to be?"
And when I listen, when I shut myself up, slow still silent, I hear Him calling. And I run, punching through plastered ugliness, to reveal the beauty, the beauty that He has me becoming,
His Servant.