The Sneaky Reader and the Hot Job

I have a night owl and an early bird. My sweet girl is a night owl like her parents. She'd stay up all night and sleep late the next day if she could. Falling asleep has always been a bit of a challenge for her. Perhaps that's why she loves to read in bed at night. And she often sneaks in a bit of reading—okay, a LOT of reading—after we've given the lights out. So much so, in fact, that I've on occasion discovered her still reading past midnight and had to take her glasses away till morning just so she'd actually get some sleep.

What's most fascinating about her is that if we don't catch her reading exploits, she most always feels the need to confess them. I will often see her padding down the hall toward me well after bedtime, hair mussed from lying on her pillow, a guilty look on her face. Or the next morning after finally dragging herself from slumber, she'll level a serious gaze at me. "Mommy, I read a little bit last night."

Currently, she's working on The Chronicles of Narnia. There are so many worse things she could do than sneak in a bit of C. S. Lewis after bedtime.

Being a night owl, she loves to sleep in next day. She got this honest. And as she's nine now and nearing puberty, I've discovered that she needs to sleep a bit extra. That's a luxury of homeschooling. The day's work waits for them, not the other way around.

Her little brother is a different story. On designated reading nights, I'll often step into their room to tell them it's time to put their books down and go to sleep, only to find him already passed out on his bed, his book shipwrecked at his side.

He's an early bird. In fact, he's the only honest early bird in the family. Some wouldn't consider him very early (approximately 8am), but being a night owl, I do. If they get in bed early enough, most nights we let them have a bit of reading time before lights out.

He's my happy, chatty, sweet and smiley alarm clock.

Two mornings ago he sneaked into my room and crawled into my bed immediately upon wakening, as is his custom, and announced, as is not his custom, "Mommy, I want to be your huggy pillow."

Awesome! I moved the pillow and hugged him close instead. Five seconds later...

"A huggy pillow's job sure is a hot job."

It's it, Mommy

I tutor/teach English at a local homeschool co-op on Mondays. Today my seven-year-old son was a little sick, so he sat in my classroom instead of going to the play room with the other younger siblings. He hunkered down in a chair near where I stood with his nose buried in my iPhone, probably playing Angry Birds Star Wars.

So, I taught the fifth- and sixth-grade girls about nouns and pronouns, then I gave them a sample sentence:

Molly rode the horse.

Then I had students plug in pronouns to replace the nouns. They figured out "she" for the subject, but trying to decide on a pronoun for the direct object "horse" stumped them. One called out "him." I explained that we don't know the gender of the horse, and the horse is not being personified (like in a story with talking animals). I asked again, but nobody answered. Then I glanced down and realized my son had scurried around the podium and was patting my leg.

"Mommy, it's 'it'!" he said in a loud whisper and flashed me a huge smile.

I love that little boy. Being a parent is the most difficult job I've ever had, but I wouldn't give up that boy or his sister for anything.

Shooting Star

I just stepped out of Starbucks, looked up at the twilight sky, and watched a meteor streak from the deep blue canopy of sky above toward the still-warm horizon and vanish. Larger and brighter than any other stars or planets in our night sky, it lasted barely long enough for me to hold my breath. Beautiful.

Royal Flush

A  friend recently posted on Facebook that his daughter's fish had died. She wanted to bury it at the beach, but since they don't live there, he was contemplating whether temporary storage in their freezer might be a solution.

This reminded me of college. My roommate/best friend and I had an aquarium where we kept black mollies and red swordtails. When fish died, she and I held flushing funerals—the dorm equivalent to a burial at sea.

Photo by Richard Chambers, 

available under the Creative Commons 

Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported license.

At this time, we lived in an all girls dorm, but our floor had urinals in the bathrooms as well. We always took the newly deceased to a toilet stall, flushed, and gave a sad impression and a farewell to the fish as it swirled around the bowl and made it's final flourish of an exit to the watery abyss beyond the porcelain.

Then one day our male swordtail died, so we decided to be gender correct and use one of the urinals. We emptied our net of the remains, said our peace, and then pulled the silver handle. We expected a long goodbye like our previous experiences with the ladies' bowl, but that fish departed with a liquid equivalent of the Chernobyl blast. A sudden, giant WHOOSH erupted, not unlike the force of an industrial strength pressure washer, and that fish was gone. I mean vanished. We jumped back from the urinal both in shock and to avoid the after-spray of water and scales. We'd been robbed of our peaceful goodbye and startled out of our wits, and as a result we committed the ultimate funeral faux pas--we laughed.

Moral of this story? When in doubt, flush first.

Chips and Salt and Light

© Pontuse | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

Have you ever noticed that the chips at the top of the bag are pretty and whole and just about perfect to look at, but the broken chips at the bottom are the saltiest? I think it's the same with people. 

Jesus tells us that we're supposed to be the salt of the earth and the light of the world (Matthew 15:13-16). We get so caught up in wanting to be whole, wanting to look and feel perfect--not flawed and broken and messed up--wanting to hang on to youth, beauty, health. But the truth is that the saltiest individuals are those who've taken that rough trip to bottom of the bag, been beaten up a bit by time and handling. Yes, those painful life experiences and heart wounds really hurt on the way down, but Jesus uses them to give the world a potent taste of His grace.

Just like those last broken bits that leave your fingers coated with salt crystals, those who are saltiest for God's kingdom are those who've been broken.

When to Let Them Walk Away

© Marilyna | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

As I stood at the sink and washed dishes and listened through the window at the new neighborhood children playing in our front yard today, I heard a few catty comments, saw some stubborn jaws and crossed arms, and heard that fateful "I'm going home" when one girl didn't like the rules of wiffle ball, followed by a stormy exit through the picket fence gate. 

It occurred to me that children learn how to manipulate others at an early age. Seems that walking away is a powerful weapon to wield and a formidable foe to face.

As I reflect on this tonight, my heart for my children is to learn early on when someone is worth pursuing and when to shrug and let them go.

The Spider Rescue (sort of...)

Tonight my kids discovered a spider in the hall and trapped it under half of a barrel o' monkeys container. My son declared that a leg was missing, and I heard my husband shout down the hall for them to grab a tissue and kill it.

Our eight-year-old daughter was all for this, but our six-year-old boy, ever the compassionate one, said, "No, don't kill it! It's already lost a leg."

Daughter said, "You heard Daddy!"

"No, it's already been through a lot."

"You can either kill it or catch it and throw it outside so it can die naturally," my husband said.

So, our daughter told little brother to go and get a tissue. She slid the tissue under the container and carried the spider to the door.

"But don't throw it!" our son said.

I'm happy to say that one seven-legged spider has been safely delivered to the freezing outdoors. I suppose hypothermia is a more humane way to go than being crushed.

The Sky Has Chickenpox

While out running errands today, my five-year-old says to his big sister, "Look A, those clouds look funny. Looks like the sky has chickenpox."

My Sunshine

My five-year-old son often asks me to sing "You Are My Sunshine" to him. Last night, after singing it while he climbed the ladder to his bunk bed, he sang it back to me, and these were his words:

You are my Mommy,
my only Mommy.
You make me happy
when skies are gray
You'll never know, dear,
how much I love you.
Please don't take
my Mommy away.

What a beautiful life. Thank you, Jesus.

So Happy, It Made Me Cry

I read chapter books to my children, a chapter each night at bedtime. We recently finished A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. The kids enjoyed the story so much that I let them watch two movie adaptations. First, the ancient Shirley Temple version, then we watched the 1997 version.

I confess, I almost always cry at happy endings, even those I've seen or read in the past. Toward the very end of the 1997 version, Sarah is reunited with her father (unlike in the novel, where he dies), and my five-year-old son was so moved by the reunion scene that he started blinking, then hid his eyes. I walked over to him, and he said, "Mommy, it made me so happy, it made me cry."

Such a precious moment. I took him on my lap, and we cried together.

A Scar Kind of Guy

There is absolutely nothing closer to the Lord's own heart than orphans and widows. Caring for the least of these is touching the very heartbeat of God. Yesterday I talked with a good friend who has a passion for adoption. She's about to embark on a journey to eastern Europe, where she and her husband will adopt not one but three children in need.

Some friends have asked her why she wants to adopt again, when she's already got a large family, including other adopted children. "Why not use that money to do something for yourself? Get some work done. A facelift and a tummy tuck. Or a boob job."

She laughed at that. "Do you think Saint Peter's going to look me over when I get to the pearly gates and say, 'Nice boob job?'"

Together, we came to the conclusion that Jesus wouldn't care the least bit about a saggy tummy. "Put your hands right here, Thomas. Feel the hole in my side. Stick your fingers into my palms." Jesus is a scar kind of guy.

Sweet Sound

There's nothing that sounds sweeter to me than the voices of my children singing worship songs from the back seat of the car. And today it was one of our favorites, "Strong Enough to Save," by Tenth Avenue North.

You fought
but you were just too weak
so you lost
all the things you try to keep
now you're on your knees, you're on your knees

But wait,
everything can change,
in a moments time you don't have to be afraid,
'cause fear is just a lie
open up your eyes

[Chorus:]
And He'll break
open the skies to save
those who cry out His name
the One the wind and waves obey
is strong enough to save you

[Verse 2:]
Look
now is not too late
lift up your head
let the rain fall on your face
you're not far from grace, you're not too far from grace

[Chorus:]
And He'll break
open the skies to save
those who cry out His name
the One the wind and waves obey
is strong enough to save you
[Repeat]

[Bridge:]
I know the weight of this world can take you down like gravity and I know the current of yourself can take you out, out to sea but hold on, hold on

[Chorus:]
And He'll break
open the skies to save
those who cry out His name
the One the wind and waves obey
is strong enough to save you

Every Breath

While out running errands today, I found myself sitting in my car at an intersection, staring past the red traffic light at the blue sky beyond, singing along with the radio to a worship song.

It was one of those moments of reflection that I experience more frequently as my thirties wax toward the forty mark, when I realize that life is fleeting, that there's nothing I can do to recapture those seconds marked off by the beat of my heart and the breaths of my lungs. Someday I will be gone, the way of all living things, and the individual moments between now and that point in time, whenever it may be, are precious, whether I savor each one or not.

Every breath is a gift from the Lord, and those used to worship Him are never wasted. What better use for them, than to send them back to their Source on the wings of praise?

The Splits

This morning, my seven year old was teaching her little brother how to do cartwheels and round-offs like she learned in gymnastics. He found this great fun. Then she sat down and showed him how to do stretches and splits. He eyed her in a split position, then turned to me and said, "Well, I don't think I want to do the splits, because that would hurt."

Respect or Lashon Hara?

In the original Hebrew, the word for gossip is lashon hara, and it's more than just talking bad about someone. The implication is that you murder a person with your words when you participate in it. Even more, the original Hebrew implies equal sin in the hearing of the hurtful words as in the speaking of them. And when wives rip apart their husbands on Facebook or when talking to girlfriends, they take lashon hara a step further. This pastor brings it right out and shows what disrespect for your husband will do in your home and family. Hard word for the ladies, but it's truth. Make any excuse you want, but you will find absolutely no Scriptural support for slandering your husband.

My Valentine

Tonight, my husband came home with a bouquet of two dozen roses for me. They were beautiful, greenish white on the outside, and pale pink inside. He said, "Is it okay that they're a day early? I was afraid the stores would run out."

Of course!

A few minutes later he said they reminded him of the roses on our wedding night.

I do believe I am married to the sweetest man alive.

Stained Glass Jesus

I love stained glass. It ranks right up there with snowflakes. So when I got a new camera last year, I decided to play with it in my church's sanctuary. I've just now gotten around to tinkering with the photographs. I'll probably post a few more in the coming days.

This first picture is of Jesus after the resurrection, meeting up with some of His disciples on the road to Emmaus.

And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself. - Luke 24:27

 

I love the pierced hands and feet.

The menorah may seem like an odd choice to add to this post, considering the title, but I assure you it is not. The temple menorah was often referred to as the "light of the world." Indeed, the three lamps on either side pointed inward to the center lamp, called the chumash, or servant lamp. And the chumash pointed to the Holy of Holies. It is very much a symbol of the Messiah.

Connections to the Past

I received a call tonight from my Granddaddy's favorite niece. Haven't seen her since my grandmother's funeral a few years ago. A distant relative sent her a five-inch binder crammed full of family genealogy, tracing our line back to Wales in the 1700s. She's fixing mistakes to the last three generations, name misspellings and such, and trying to compile photographs for those relatives who don't have one. Then she's going to send me a copy of it.

There've been so many times I wished I'd written down those little bits of information my grandfather told me, like that his grandmother was 75% cherokee, or that an ancestor served under George Washington. I can't wait to get my hands on that book. It feels like a small connection to him.

Homemade Microwave Popcorn

I love popcorn, but I'm not fond of the chemicals that line the bags of store-bought microwave popcorn. So one evening I decided to try popping my own. The results were surprisingly easy, and delicious! So I'm going to pass on this little secret to the rest of you.

 What you'll need:

-1 brown paper lunch bag
-Popcorn kernels (I like to use organic, because that's how I roll)
-1 tablespoon measure
-1 microwave in good working order
-1 large bowl
-Butter (optional)
-Salt (optional)

Directions:

Pour 2 or 3 tablespoons of popcorn kernels into your brown paper bag. Fold over the top of the bag (you could probably tape it closed, but I've never had it come open with a double fold). Place the bag in your microwave and cook it for 2 to 3 minutes, until you hear a delay of 3 to 5 seconds between pops. Take the bag out of the microwave (careful, the popcorn will be hot!), and dump the popcorn into a bowl. Repeat this process until you have the amount of popcorn you want.

To make buttered popcorn, melt one tablespoon (or more!) of butter for every two bags of popcorn that you pop. When you're finished popping your kernels, drizzle the melted butter over the popcorn, stirring to evenly distribute. Salt it, if desired. I use a popcorn salt, available in the same section as the large jars of popcorn kernels.

I love making popcorn this way. It tastes fresh and yummy. Your family doesn't consume all those chemicals in commercially-packaged bags and it's healthier and lighter-tasting than oil-popped. You don't need an air popper and and you can get as creative as you want.

Creative Ideas

1. Make popcorn balls! Allrecipes.com has a recipe for Old-Time Molasses popcorn balls here.

2. Make popcorn garland for your Christmas tree.

3. Get creative with your seasonings. Try garlic and herbs on your popcorn, or caramel.

Stash in my Nightstand, aka Glad to be Home

I have an old nightstand that belonged to my great grandparents. It was a washstand in its previous life. Sometime in the middle of the twentieth century, it got booted to their back porch. In the 1980's, my grandmother rescued it and had it refinished, revealing stunning quartersawn oak, also known as tiger oak, beneath five or so layers of paint. Thankfully, the refinisher had some talent and refrained from using a high gloss finish coat like some mistakenly do on antiques. Instead, he gave it a nice soft finish that resembled a patina.

I've been using this washstand as my nightstand for the past 15 years. I cleaned it out the other day and found a couple old pairs of glasses, an old pocket calendar with once-memorable dates recorded, an ancient address book that possessed names of folks I used to know, some of whom I barely remember, a lint remover, book marks, two tubes of Burt's Bees lip balm, cough drops, and pictures my daughter has drawn for me on scrap paper (those I saved).

On the bottom shelf, behind the old baby monitor we no longer use, was stashed a small treasure trove of sermon notes written on old Christian Fellowship* (CF) church bulletins. The most recent was from 1999. As I pulled them out and thumbed through them, tears filled my eyes. That stack of papers represented so much more than just a collection of old sermons. That church had been my family. After four beautiful years, we moved away and were officially sent to their sister church NL (another name change), which ended up being too far from where we lived for us to participate in their ministry.

Tragically, a year after we were sent out, CF split. Yes, the building still stands and still bears the same name, but it's not the same body of believers. The flock scattered.

When I got word that CF had split, my heart broke. It took me a long time to admit that I was angry at the Lord. It took me even longer to realize that He had spared me the brunt of the blow by removing me gently from the midst before it was torn apart. Still, I found myself longing for home. A home that, I felt, no longer existed.

We attended a Messianic Jewish congregation for a time and learned some amazing things about the Hebrew roots of our Christian faith, but we soon discovered that the Messianic movement had an ugly side. It was full of individuals who had left protestant churches because they were offended. Sadly, divisiveness follows those who leave a church the wrong way out of offense. Hence, that little congregation lasted just a year after we joined, before many of the members left, as the division caught up with them and pushed them again out the doors. The rabbi and ribbetzin, discouraged because this was not the first time their congregation had split, decided not to rebuild it.

We moved to our current city seven and a half years ago, and have since attended several different churches. Though we disagreed with some theologically, nothing like that was ever insurmountable. It was the absence of the Holy Spirit's sweet presence and His healing power in their midst that left me cold. We wandered in this desert for six and a half years before the Lord pushed us in the direction of another church, which I will call RC. I say pushed in retrospect, because we stumbled into it quite by happenstance.

I was stunned that first Sunday. The Lord had much to say, and discouragement had left me tone deaf. Finally I was in front of a pastor who was, apparently, in tune with what the Lord was saying in my frequency and was willing to repeat it. But it was more than the sermon. It was the worship music, and the freedom that the worship team gave to the Holy Spirit in their midst. It was the prayer team that waited at the front after the service closed, ready to pray with and minister to those in need. It was congregation family member--a complete stranger--who looked at me and said, "welcome home."

I've recently started accumulating sermon notes again. RC actually provides transcripts of the previous week's sermon, which makes it much easier to read them later on than my silly scribblings sideways on a faded bulletin. But regardless of whether they were already typed out for me or not, these sermons are worth keeping. Much like CF, this church holds a precious and rare commodity for me: the palpable presence of the Holy Spirit, accompanied by granite Scriptural foundation and a passion to see God's people healed...emotionally, spiritually, and physically.

As I bagged all the items I no longer needed from my nightstand, I returned the small stash of sermon notes to their proper place on the bottom shelf, then added the new notes to the top of the stack.

It's so good to finally be home again.

*Church names have been truncated for privacy. Those who would need to know the name already do. For the rest of you, it doesn't matter.