tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-883999506602164172024-02-18T23:47:48.895-06:00BondMusingsI believe in the weight of words, and this blog is my attempt to validate that which is worth validating.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger116125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-18781203772271539292013-03-22T10:52:00.000-05:002013-03-22T10:52:13.842-05:00Getting the trash out<br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Yesterday was another windy day in my city. It was also trash day. Once, I glanced out my window and saw that my giant recycling can full of easily-blown papers was lying on its side, lid open. I rushed out to upright it, and I saw that my neighbor’s cans had also lost their lids. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In the past, I have chased her trash around her yard while she is at work, righted her trash cans for her, and pulled her empty cans out of the street and up to her garage. I was anxious that today was going to be another one of those days where I had to check out the window every five minutes to make sure her trash wasn’t blowing all over the neighborhood. I spent about one minute feeling sorry for myself that this was turning into Trash Watch 2013 while my neighbor was oblivious to my very sacrificial civic duty, and then a thought came to me. <i>She got her trash cans to the curb. On the right day.</i> And suddenly I was in awe of her, of what she does.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My neighbor is a single mom whose kids I count as my own. She works full-time and somehow manages to single-parent and run her house as well. She pays her bills, feeds her kids, arranges for their education and child-care, and enrolls them in extra-curricular activities. She teaches them character and obedience, and I have to say here that they are <i>great </i>kids. I don’t know how she does it all.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In my world as a stay-at-home-mom, I do a lot of “drive-by reading.” I read blogs here and there, when I can. I read texts here and there, when I can. I read articles here and there, when I can. I check Facebook here and there, when I can. And many of the things I read have to do with parenting, and mothering specifically. After reading about another mom who took her kid to ballet (somehow I cannot manage to enroll Coralie in a dance class. I do not know why I am so dumbfounded by the process), or whose children just won the Leadership Award in preschool (!), or who saved $1500/year by cloth diapering (which, by the way, is the only loving way to diaper your child), I feel inadequate.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Yesterday, I read <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristen-howerton/can-we-bring-the-holidays_b_2903040.html" target="_blank">this article</a>. <i>Finally</i>, I thought. <i>Another mom who says,</i> <i>Enough!</i> <i>Enough of trying to look like Supermom! Enough of spending hours on Pinterest coming up with Easter ideas or birthday party ideas or Valentine’s card ideas!</i> I felt validated in the choices I make as a mother that exclude me from the over-the-top-awesome-mom category. And then the author mentioned that she had read to her children for 20 minutes that day, played outside with them, bathed them, helped them practice guitar, and cooked them dinner and ate with them. And then I felt bad again. Because, yesterday, I did none of those things. I played with my kids a little, I read to them for maybe five minutes, I babysat another kid for a few hours, and I cooked dinner for them. But I did not eat it with them: I went to the gym during dinner. I also yelled at my kids, rolled my eyes at my kids, and ignored my kids. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Ryan often tells me that I am a good mom. I always respond, almost desperately, with, <i>Why? Why do you say that?</i> I need to hear him tell me that he believes I am a good mom, because I doubt it often. Now listen, I’m not plagued with a low self-esteem at all. I’m pretty confident in myself and my abilities. But when it comes to being a mom? I need all the positive reinforcement I can get, because reading those blogs and those statuses and those tweets? They are not encouraging to me. (And, by the way, I have stopped reading Facebook and many of the blogs I used to read for this very reason.)</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Ryan doesn’t read those blogs; he doesn’t use their metrics of 20-minutes-a-day reading to analyze whether or not I’m a good mom. He sees our kids, their character, their health, their security, their curiosity, and he knows I’m a good mom.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Sometimes, getting the trash to the curb is what matters. So what if the lid blows off, I didn’t make homemade Valentine’s cards, the recycling blows all over the neighborhood, I served my family a frozen pizza, the trash can blows into the street. So what. I took the trash out. </span><br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-5440315022946411892012-12-18T21:24:00.000-06:002012-12-18T21:54:23.004-06:00My TakeIt's been four days since the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. Four days, and I am still having trouble processing what happened there.<br />
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I'm bothered by many things. I'm bothered that someone killed 27 innocent people, the majority of them little children.<br />
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I am bothered that people blame one of the victims, the shooter's mom.<br />
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I'm bothered that people are turning this into an argument for atheism or for God's vengeance.<br />
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I'm bothered that people are turning this into an argument for gun control or for the second amendment.<br />
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I'm bothered that people are turning this into anything other than what it is: a horrible event that has dropped the bottom out of so many people's worlds.<br />
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I'm bothered that Facebook is yet again a place for inane narcissistic posting about what you ate, how far you ran, how great you are. And I'm bothered that it is also relegating this tragedy to another stupid, un-solvable political debate.<br />
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Tomorrow night is our church's youth group's Christmas party. I am to lead the youth in a devotion. What do I say? "Merry Christmas, God loves you, let's pretend nothing horrific happened this week?"<br />
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No, I can't do that.<br />
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Instead, this is what I wrote:<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In light of the recent Sandy Hook Elementary School tragedy and Christmas, which is a traditionally religious holiday even among the non-religious, God’s name is getting tossed around a lot. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">People are questioning why God allowed this, if there even is a God, and if there is a God, what kind of God He is.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">To help you sort through the many conflicting opinions you are hearing, allow me to share one thought.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Please, do not equate BEING MORAL with BEING A CHRISTIAN. There is a difference between being a good person and being a Christian. Again, being a good person is NOT the same thing as being a Christian. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Being “moral” means that you do “good things” and that you don’t do “bad things.” Of course, being moral is wonderful. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Being a Christian means that you know that everyone sins. Everyone, not just murderers. Not just cheaters. Not just thieves. Not just liars. You. and Me. We’re both sinners, hopelessly lost and unworthy of redemption. It means that you know there is no one who is “moral.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Some people say that America asked for this shooting because the choices we Americans have made lately, the movies we watch, the games we play, do not please God. These people imply that this is “God’s punishment” because we are not moral enough.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There is no place for that kind of talk in Christianity.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hear me now: God is not able to be kicked out of schools simply because His name is left out of school assemblies. He is not uncaring enough to rain down a school massacre just because we don’t pray before lunch in our cafeterias. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">God is very much in our schools because He is in your hearts. God is not limited by our invitation, by our acknowledgement, or by our moral behavior.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I don’t know what you take away from this week’s tragedy. What I take away is that this world is not my home. This world is broken, is full of hurting people on both sides of the gun, and is desperate for love. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I, for one, look forward more than ever to heaven’s restorative, reparative, comforting home.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It is a home with doors flung wide open for you, opened by someone who Himself saw His child born into such a broken world as this and witnessed His own son's massacre. THAT God, the one who still showers us imperfect people with love and hope, THAT God is the true God.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-49306183713794894062012-10-16T08:00:00.000-05:002012-10-16T08:00:00.041-05:00Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>Cloud Atlas</i> is an artistic book, and I respect David Mitchell for that. This book has six different story lines in different parts of the world and in different time periods. He tells each story in halves, starting in the earliest time period and going to the future and then back again. (If that doesn’t make sense, the stories read like this: ABCDE F EDCBA.) As if it weren’t difficult enough to have six different settings with six different narrators, Mitchell created six <i>very different</i> narrators in six <i>very different</i> settings with six <i>very different </i>story lines, and he TIED THEM ALL TOGETHER.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now, I’m not sure how to go about “reviewing” this book, and I’m even less sure after we had our book club meeting and we each came with a different impression of the book. (Dare I say, six <i>very different</i> impressions? Indeed, the number six was present an astounding and un-ignorable number of times. I am curious why the number six had such a prominent place in the book. . . I know that the number six is considered a perfect number because it is neither a square number nor a prime number, and I know that three sixes in succession signal the Most Feared Thing, and I wonder if Mitchell was using both meanings of the number? That his story is a true base for human life and that we should be warned about the current track we humans are on?)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Many reviews of this book claim that Mitchell illustrates the total depravity/selfishness/brutality of mankind. I would agree with that, in part. I think Mitchell is satirizing his view of humans and intends to make his readers re-think they way they live. But I also think he does a masterful job tapping into his creativity, and I am a firm believer that sometimes art is just <i>art</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The first few stories are typical narratives with complicated characters and are neither anything to write home about nor a reason to put the book down. However, things really pick up in the first of the two futuristic stories (that would be story <i>E </i>using the above representation): pollution, cloning, and Big Government show the demise of the modern world, and in the most futuristic story (<i>F</i>), the world reverts back to a primitive state where only those who can work <i>with </i>the land instead of <i>against</i> it survive.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Gah, I don’t feel like I am portraying this book in a way that may want to make you read it. All I know is I talked about this book the whole time I read it. Maybe it was quotes like these that attached me to this book:</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Disclaimer: These quotes made me stop and think. I do not necessarily agree with any of them, but I found them all to make me stop reading and ponder. Such is the mark of a good book, I think.</span></span></h4>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*Said by a very manipulative, secretly murderous doctor: <i>“After years of working with missionaries, I am tempted to conclude that their endeavors merely prolong a dying race’s agony for ten or twenty years. . . Might it not be our duty to likewise ameliorate the savages’ sufferings by hastening their extinction? Think on your Red Indians . . . More humane, surely & more honest, just to knock the savages on the head & get it over with?”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ouch...more humane to kill than to (pretend to? try to?) help?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*A conversation between a natural-born human and a clone who recently became free-thinking: (The human speaks, the clone narrates.) <i>“These ... xistential qualms you suffer, they just mean you’re truly human.” I asked how I might remedy them. “You don’t remedy them. You live thru them.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I think this caught my attention because we were never promised a life without stress/trouble/conflict; we were promised that we <i>would</i> have trouble but that someone who overcame that trouble was fighting for us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*A conversation between an enlightened woman in the future and a “savage” of the future: (The woman speaks first. The <i>Smart </i>refer to those who lived in an “advanced” civilization like we do today.) "<i>Smart mastered sicks, miles, seeds an’ made miracles ord’nary, but it din’t master one thing, nay, a hunger in the hearts o’humans, yay, a hunger for more.” More what, I asked. Old Uns’d got ev’rythin’. “Oh, more gear, more food, faster speeds, longer lifes, easier lifes, more power, yay. Now the Hole World is big, but it weren’t big ‘nuff for that hunger what made Old Uns rip out the skies an’ boil up the seas an’ poisin soil with crazed atoms an’ donkey ‘bout with rotted seeds so new plagues was borned and babbits </i>[babies] <i>was freak-birthed. Fin’ly, bit’ly, then quicksharp, states busted into bar’bric tribes an’ the Civ’lize Days ended, ‘cept for a few folds’n’pockets here’n’there, where its last embers glimmer.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yes, I can see how we have lots of gear, lots of foods, fast speeds on land and in the air, long and easy lives, and lots of power. I can also see how we are polluting the ozone, ruining the sea, damaging the soil, and promoting genetically-engineered seeds. I truly hope that my children and my children’s children do not live to see the day when barbaric tribes break out and organized nations disappear into an unruly mess.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Along the same lines, another section of the book describes how the government self-implodes: by over-empowering corporations. Another section mentions that diplomacy is for idiots-- only increasingly bloodier wars bring about change, change that ironically wipes out humanity.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now that I think about it, each section highlights at least one way that humanity is destroying itself. How happy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*Again, said by the enlightened woman: <i>“Times are you say a person’s b’liefs ain’t true, they think you’re saying their lifes ain’t true an’ their truth ain’t true.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When a person’s beliefs are attacked, it is the same as if his or her person were attacked. It is difficult to separate a man and his beliefs; we would do well to remember this.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*In the future, another human is talking to the clone and said, in defense of his party’s rise to totalitarian power: <i>“Think of the disastrous Pentecostalist Coup of North America.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i></i></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Is Mitchell referencing today?</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*Said by an older man: <i>“We--by whom I mean anyone over sixty--commits two offenses just by existing. One is Lack of Velocity. We drive too slowly, walk too slowly, talk too slowly. The world will do business with dictators, perverts, and drug barons of all stripes, but being slowed down it cannot </i>abide<i>. Our second offence is being Everyman’s memento mori. The world can only get comfy in shiny-eyed denial if we are out of sight.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i></i></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*Clasps hands together* Well, those certainly are happy thoughts, aren’t they? I can see why others in the book club didn’t love this book. Somehow, I walked away with three things:</span></span></div>
<ol style="list-style-type: decimal;">
<li style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">an appreciation for Mitchell’s ambition and ability to pull off such a stunt as this</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">an enjoyment of the satire that was laced throughout</span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">gladness that I have eternal Hope that has nothing to do with humanity</span></span></li>
</ol>
<div>
One more thing: this book was made into a movie. That movie comes out October 25th. You can see the trailer <a href="http://cloudatlas.warnerbros.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-20170712746641478812012-10-05T08:57:00.000-05:002012-10-05T08:57:00.458-05:00This is not about kids<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">No time for pleasantries. The little tyrants are in bed, and I have about half a minute before one of them calls me in for some emergency, like a toe not being covered by a blanket, or a paci falling out of a swaddled infant’s mouth, or a papercut on the pinky of an overtired girl. (I am sure a good parent would nip that kind of behavior in the bud, but alas I am not one of those parents.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The second reason I haven’t written much (the first being the Tyrants themselves, of course) is that I have no good material. I don’t want to write only about my children because to me that means my thought life as well as my daily life has been completely taken over by people not even four feet tall. So I have some sort of rule in my head to not write about my kids very much, except HA HA HA I am writing about them right now, and they <i>have </i>taken over my thought life, because I haven’t written about anything <i>else</i> for months now.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(But while we’re on the subject of Them, let me ask some advice. Madeline has started refusing to wear diapers. That’s not a problem, except for the fact that she has no idea when she NEEDS TO GO. Or WHEN SHE IS GOING, for that matter. What the heck am I supposed to do about this?)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And now for some non-kid thoughts:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<br />
<ol style="list-style-type: decimal;">
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ryan and I are watching <i>The Good Wife</i> on Netflix. We are halfway through the most recent season and are trying to catch up before CBS takes the current episodes off the site. I won’t say this is the BEST show I have ever watched*, but I really enjoy it for several reasons. First, the logic that is used to navigate the cases really stretch my brain. I am FOR SURE not smart enough to be a lawyer. Secondly, the law is an area of American life I know very little about, and I enjoy learning about its many strengths and flaws and politics. Thirdly, there are no kids in it. </span></span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I just finished up <i>Cloud Atlas </i>for my book club, and I fully intend to write a review of it. Someday. The thing I liked best about the book was the political and social satire--there are soooo many quotes I want to share with you . . . it is rife with “warnings” about the way America (and the rest of the world) conducts herself. There is even a line about the <i>disastrous Pentecostal takeover of North America</i>. Doesn’t that sound ominous? I wonder if the author thinks we are in that now.</span></li>
<li style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This is a really good one: my friend (well, if you want to be technical, she is my parents’ friend and the parent of my childhood friends and now <i>my</i> friend) recently started a blog so that she could be intentional about living her 59th year of life. One of her goals for the year is to glean wisdom from different women she would not necessarily otherwise have befriended. One woman is an Iranian Aziz (think princess, though she says that <i>princess</i> is a new term and her tribe has been around for much longer than <i>princesses</i>) whose title dictates that she marry a hero. Only she defines hero as “someone who fulfills his destiny so that a woman may fulfill hers.” Don’t you LOVE THAT? She goes on to explain that a hero gives a woman space to be more fully herself: When he takes care of her needs, she can explore ways to be more fully herself. Likewise, when she takes care of his needs, she frees him up to be more fully himself. Think familial roles, with a lot more elegance and significance. I just really love that thought. A hero is not a strong man in the muscly sense we all think of; a hero is a strong man in that he <i>serves</i> his wife. And she in turn can serve the family from a place of peace and conviction rather than from a place of duty. Wow.</span></li>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ok, I think that is all. I can only think of THREE NON-KID THINGS. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am so ashamed.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*Those would be <i>Friday Night Lights</i> (drama), <i>Arrested Development</i> (comedy) and <i>Parenthood</i> (hybrid).</span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-21103785458391220952012-09-14T07:54:00.000-05:002012-09-14T07:54:26.916-05:00So I called China<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"></span><br />
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Here's a funny story.</div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">Ryan left town early Sunday afternoon and got back in Wednesday evening, right before we took the kids to Awana. Thursday mid-afternoon, his grandmother, her friend, and his parents arrived for four days. I, of course, had a busy week taking care of the girls by myself for a few days and preparing for company. I had talked to my sister a bunch over the course of the week, and she knew company was coming in Thursday night. So when I saw a call from her around 8:30pm, I thought, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, she probably just forgot to tell me something earlier...I'll take it really fast and no one will even notice I'm gone.</span></div>
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However, she is not calling with a quick question. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Below is the actual* transcript from our phone conversation:</div>
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Allie: Hey . . . have you heard from Mom and Dad lately?</div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">Me, talking: No. </span></div>
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<span>Me, thinking: </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Of course we haven't. They're in China!</span></div>
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Allie: Well, they usually email and haven't in 48 hours.</div>
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Me, talking: Hmmm. You're right. That's weird, but I am sure they are fine.</div>
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Me, thinking: <span style="font-style: italic;">T</span><span style="font-style: italic;">hey've been kidnapped.</span></div>
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<span>Allie: Yeah, I am sure they're fine, but I might call their hotel.</span></div>
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<span>Me, talking: Ok, no big deal, let me know what you hear. </span></div>
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<span><span>Me, thinking: </span><span style="font-style: italic;">How am I going to break the news to the girls that their grandparents were kidnapped in China??</span></span></div>
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Me, talking: Wait, have you emailed them yet?</div>
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Allie: Yeah, I did, about an hour ago.</div>
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Me, talking: So they might not have gotten it yet?</div>
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Me, thinking: <span style="font-style: italic;">Of course they haven't received the email-- their phones were confiscated!</span></div>
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<span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<span><span>We hang up, and I pretend to be normal and not worried. After all, they are in CHINA, not TUSCON, and they aren't supposed to have normal communication with us. I go into the kitchen and start making the breakfast casserole for the morning. Allie calls a minute later and says she can't make an international call from her phone. I try. Neither of us gets it to work. Allie googles <span style="font-style: italic;">how to make an international phone call</span>, and I keep making the casserole. </span></span></div>
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<span><span><br /></span></span></div>
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<span><span>(Don't tell Ryan this because he will never let me forget it, but I did a little google search myself: <span style="font-style: italic;">US tourists China kidnapping. </span></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent;">No results--which wasn't even comforting since the AP probably hadn't had time to break the story anyway.)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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(And yes, I really did google that.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Allie calls back and says that the hotel said Mom and Dad were still checked in. Not satisfied, she decides to call their guide for that day (which is the day after the day we are on, so there is a bit of confusion about that, too). Their guide, "Julie," can't understand a word she is saying, and they eventually hang up. Allie tells me that she doesn't know what else to do and that she is just going to wait to hear back from them. I decide that enough is enough and I that am going to call their guide for the week, "Andy." But first, I learn I have to call Sprint and add a $4 plan to my phone so I CAN CALL CHINA and pay per minute at a reduced rate. (Always frugal, this one.) In the meantime, I get a text from Allie that says she heard from their butler and that he left a message at the hotel for them. I get everything worked out with Sprint, and I get Andy on the line. He is very nice and happy to talk to me and says my parents are very happy and that he just dropped them off at the airport to go visit another city for the day. Relieved, I say, "Oh good. But when you see them again, please tell them that they are in trouble with their daughters." Andy says, "They are in </span><span style="font-style: italic;">trouble</span>?!" I say, "Oh, no! They are in trouble with ME! I was WORRIED!" And Andy says, "Oh, they are okay then?" And I say, "Wait, ARE they okay?" And he says, "Yes, they are very happy. I am so glad to talk to you, Katie!" And I say, "Me, too Andy. So Mom and Dad are fine?" And he says, "Oh, yes!" We hang up, and I tell Allie the good news.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
So now I have to tell Ryan what Allie and I have done over the past hour. (Quick phone call from Allie, my foot!) He is, rightly, incredulous that we went to all that trouble to track down our parents when there was NO CAUSE FOR ALARM, because HELLO, THEY ARE ON VACATION IN CHINA.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
(I think it is just so weird that we couldn't get in touch with Mom and Dad. I mean, they are in an airplane over China, and we can't get in touch with them to tell them to email us on a more regular schedule? How primitive is this world becoming?)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
Anyway, so the concierge and butler at their hotel were contacted, Julie was contacted, and Andy was contacted. Now I am worried that when they get back to Beijing they will have a heart attack wondering what in the world was so bad here that we tried calling China F O U R times to get in touch with them. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal;">
Parents. No matter how old they get, you never stop worrying about them.</div>
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<br /></div>
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*Actual = approximate</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-12834224637093068422012-08-29T08:31:00.000-05:002012-08-29T08:31:00.074-05:00Pink clutter<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You know, I used to desire my house to still look like an adult’s house after having kids. I would try to restrict the amount of baby gear/kid toys that were in our living room, bedroom, and kitchen because I needed the house to still feel like <i>mine</i>, unlike my life which decidedly did not feel like mine.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Three kids later, the house has gotten away from me. It is so much dirtier than I ever thought I would let it become, and it has passed my "clutter limit" five times over.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But last night, as I was sitting in my bedroom feeding Lainey in a rocker that has been temporarily crammed into the corner, I looked around and saw her bassinet crowding the space between my bed and the wall. I saw her swing taking up the only other open corner of the room. I saw a DVD tower next to my nightstand, full of VeggieTales, Disney movies, and Elmo videos.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And a wave of immense happiness washed over me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I swaddled Lainey, put her in that swing which really should have been an eye-sore to me, and walked out to the living room. There was a play dress on the couch, a sleeping bag wadded up in the corner, an unreasonable amount of shoes that Mads had arranged by the front door, and a stroller parked in between some chairs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Instead of feeling like I needed to tidy up the room, I got my camera out. I don’t want to forget the days of play dresses on the couch, swings in the bedroom, and tiny shoes by the front door. My girls have brought so much fulfillment and meaning to my days that their detritus is <i>welcomed</i>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I never, ever thought I would be so happy to have pink clutter take over every. single. room. of the house. But, hey! I think I'm finally growing up. Smelling the roses gets easier every day, and the roses in turn become more fragrant.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Today I am so very, very grateful to God for my girls. Their giggles, their antics, their smiles and games and imaginations . . . they are changing me. I know God specifically gave me Coralie, Madeline, and Lainey, and I know He has things to teach me through and because of them. I have never been so happy to lose bits of myself-- my controlling nature, my need for tidiness, my desire for adult conversation, for heaven’s sake!-- because I am finding <i>richer</i> bits of myself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Those bits are pink, and they are <i>everywhere</i>, and they are of the divine. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thank you, God.</span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-46394770264132678492012-08-27T08:11:00.000-05:002012-08-27T10:08:10.420-05:00A KTB short (like those clever short movies, but without the cleverness or the motion-picture-ness)<br />
Hey! When you are feeding a baby in the middle of the night every night, you tend to have a bunch of random thoughts. I thought I'd gather mine here for you so you can feel like you're a part of the middle-of-the-night feedings.<br />
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<li>Coralie started school last week. I sort of dreaded it, because <i>end of an era, blah, blah, blah</i>, but it felt right. I did cry during orientation and after dropping her off the first day, but I found myself surprisingly <i>excited</i> about her time at school when the day finally came. She is such a delightful, smart, funny kid that I know her teachers will like her. And being a former teacher myself, I know all too well that the likable kids. . . well, let's just say it's good to be likable. </li>
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<li>You know those pronunciation guides after words? Like pronunciation is pronounced <i>prəˌnənsēˈāSHən</i> ? Does anyone know how to read those anymore, or are we all dependent on the little speaker buttons after words that will pronounce the word for us? I am sad to think we might have lost the ability to read pronunciation guides.</li>
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<li>Know what can freak me out? A space-agey future. Read <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/tech/news/story/2012-08-05/future-retail-tech/56880626/1" target="_blank">this article</a> about the future of retail if you dare. Then <i>please</i> tell me the world is not headed in that direction. It makes me think about those <i>Left Behind</i> movies, and no one wants to think about those.</li>
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<li>Pertussis also freaks me out. GET YOURSELF VACCINATED IF YOU WANT TO TOUCH MY BABY. Insert a rant here, which I will not publish for fear of alienating someone, but just imagine my ire, ok?</li>
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I have such happy middle-of-the-night thoughts, yes?</div>
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Here are some day-thoughts for you.</div>
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<li>I found a really great e-calendar that is both an app and a website. It's called <a href="http://www.cozi.com/live-simply?redir=home" target="_blank">Cozi</a>. You're welcome in advance for making your life more organized.</li>
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<li>I bought an e-reader, and I feel really sophisticated reading it. Right now I am reading <i>Cloud Atlas</i> for my book club, and I feel especially cool because I can highlight and annotate <i>without needing to get up to get a pen! </i>Anytime I can accomplish a task without burning a single calorie is a really good time in my book.</li>
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<li>Speaking of calories, <i>ick. </i>I really hate burning them but I love ingesting them. Especially when they are in chocolate.</li>
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<li>Because we can't really travel right now (You know what? I think three small kids is kind of a kill-joy when vacationing), I am dreaming of our future travels. We are going to NYC in the summer of 2014 with our best friends-- without kids-- and we are going to have such a great time, I just know it. Broadway, Ellis Island, Central Park, museums! BEING OUT AND ABOUT PAST EIGHT O'CLOCK! We are also planning a trip to CA to see family and go to Disney Land, but that won't be until Lainey is old enough to appreciate the <i>dollas </i>required to get her there. AND we are planning a really awesome trip to . . . somewhere . . . for our fifteenth wedding anniversary in 2018 (that is, if Ryan can convince me to stay with him that long). I would love to start booking unbelievable fares and rates and such, but I really don't think airlines are taking reservations to a place called <i>somewhere</i> in the year 2018. </li>
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<li>And finally, I would like to leave you with a picture. Look at Ryan's quads! While they don't look <i>exactly </i>like that anymore, he is still a very trim man. But he thinks he's fat. If that doesn't make you question everything you thought you knew, I don't know what will.</li>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-15855898850417992302012-07-11T08:00:00.000-05:002012-07-11T08:00:10.088-05:00Thirty<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thrice this week in my Facebook newsfeed a quote has popped up that essentially says that if you have a clean house, your priorities are out of line. That well-loved children are better than an immaculate home, and that it’s one or the other. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I read that quote, I immediately felt guilty. For the record, I agree. However, I <i>like</i> having a clutter-free home, and to the best of my ability I maintain that. In my wedding vows to Ryan, I even said something about creating a harmonious home environment, and to me, that partly means that I straighten my home every day. But that Facebook quote makes me feel bad for doing so, like I am not able to play with or love on my children because I have a clean(ish) house. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That’s all beside the point though. That quote, coupled with my reaction to it, made me think about something much more important than toy bins and happy children.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What I really want to say is this: I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every time I said something that made you feel bad about your choices . . . your priorities . . . yourself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I turn thirty tomorrow. They say that the twenties are full of ignorance and ambition and selfishness and that the thirties bring wisdom and confidence. Since I’m not actually thirty yet, I can’t attest to that, but what I can attest to is that I have learned a lot these past twenty-nine-plus years. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One of the most important lessons I’ve learned is that people don’t need my opinion or assessments. They just need my love and acceptance. My mom recently shared a quote with me (as usual, I don’t remember the originator of this quote) that said something to the effect of, “If you assume each person you meet is hurting, you’re probably right.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One goal for this next decade of my life is to encourage those I love, including myself, more. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(I will probably still clean my house, though.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Cheers to a new decade!</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-36464409853991579912012-06-25T09:31:00.001-05:002012-06-25T09:31:58.858-05:00Gratitude<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"></span><br />
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I want to spend a few moments in gratitude. I have so much to be grateful for: a loving husband, delightful children, model parents, a thoughtful sister, great in-laws, and a wonderful extended family. I have a house that is more than adequate, plenty of food on the table, cool air in the house, clothes in my closet, and diapers in the nursery. I am healthy, and those I love are healthy.</div>
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***</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">I will admit that my days with three little kids is total chaos. Total. Chaos. My house is a mess even though I straighten it a billion times a day; I have no mental energy to think about what to cook my family for one meal, let alone three meals a day; I am holed up in "baby jail" feeding Lainey for what feels like eight hours a day; and someone always needed something five minutes ago.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"><div>
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Also. Madeline now requests to wear underwear over her diaper. Coralie has to put on lip gloss before we go anywhere. The girls are completely unaware that it is a hundred degrees outside and ask to play on the driveway every ten minutes. I took Madeline to get her hair cut, and the stylist did such a horrible job that five cuts into it, I told her to stop. I took Mads home and then tried my hand at cutting her hair. (Needless to say, it's short.) Coralie has announced that she will be taking showers instead of baths now.</div>
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Throw in a newborn, and I am in over my head. For someone who likes order and predictability, my life is laughable right now. I taught Coralie to tell me, whenever she thinks I am stressed, "Mom, it's only for a few months."</div>
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The new-baby stage is so so short. And so so so sweet. I don't want to wish these next months away, but I know I need the reminder that life will not always be so chaotic. I am grateful for this chaos, and I am grateful that the chaos isn't permanent. </div>
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But there is something else I am abundantly grateful for.</div>
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***</div>
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My mom, RiRi, lived with us for an entire month, helping me and loving my girls. She did laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning, bedtime routines, cooking, counseling, and playing while she was here. She freed me up to learn about my newest daughter, to go to doctor's appointments, to rest while my body healed, and to actually enjoy the craziness of bringing home a new baby. She freed Ryan up to go back to work before his wife was ready to be alone with three kids all day.</div>
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She held Lainey when she cried or needed to be burped, she let Coralie do make-up with her every day, she taught Madeline at least a dozen new words, and she talked with me late into the night while I fed Lainey one last time before bed.</div>
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I don't think it is possible for me to adequately express either my gratitude or my love for my mom. Or my admiration for that matter. But I do know how to be a good mom to daughters based on my mom's example, and I will work every day to pass that legacy onto my daughters.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoQ2aD7MEF9ogqpHDJcPSTzjMjtVw8i3Oe3vZVtj6iO0IoGt0ash6js7BiKsTlsqWj-oAKbDxaYZJlc4M2eV8umMR34DGfwGHpC6xGuqG3h7opyVweNcwEX3vqqVUir5RtR1rw24awgg/s1600/IMG_6072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoQ2aD7MEF9ogqpHDJcPSTzjMjtVw8i3Oe3vZVtj6iO0IoGt0ash6js7BiKsTlsqWj-oAKbDxaYZJlc4M2eV8umMR34DGfwGHpC6xGuqG3h7opyVweNcwEX3vqqVUir5RtR1rw24awgg/s320/IMG_6072.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Thank you, Mom, for giving us a month of your life, for the third time in four years. Thank you, Dad, for being a "bachelor" for that long and for coming to Wichita four times in the past 30 days. (And while I'm at it, thank you, Allie for making the trip twice. I loved having you here for Lainey's birth. Your sacrifice to make those two short trips in the span of five days leaves me feeling very blessed to have you as my sister.)</div>
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Gratitude. Yes, that is what is defining my day today.</div>
</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-43207121940326603932012-05-24T09:11:00.000-05:002012-05-24T09:11:00.253-05:00Our story<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s hard to know exactly which details to include in telling one’s story, and it seems even more difficult if one is trying to show how God has orchestrated one’s life.* </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Does my story start when my parents met at their local church of Christ? Or years earlier, when their parents each moved to Amarillo, for different reasons?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Or when my parents decided to get married and then proceeded to have two (very awesome) little girls?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Or when my dad decided to leave his position as a pharmacist in Texas and move his family all over the country for sales positions?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Or does the story only really begin when Mom and Dad announced that we would be moving to St. Louis, after which I sobbed and cried and said I wasn’t going and where was St. Louis, anyway?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I don’t know how far back to start when telling my family’s story. Since I have to pick a point in time, I think I will start in August of 1996, with one very important lead-in.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I truly have the best parents I could ever have asked for, prayed for, wished for. I am grateful for everything they did for me, starting the day I was born. They prayed for me, challenged me, disciplined me, cared for me, and ultimately set me up for the life I have now. I do not wish to minimize their impact on my life, but I have to start my family’s story somewhere, so I will start the summer I turned fourteen.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We (Mom, Dad, Allie, and I) had moved to St. Louis from Atlanta in August of 1996. For some reason, we visited the Lafayette church of Christ the first Sunday we were in town. For some reason, we went to Sunday School that very first time visiting. For some reason, Ryan Bond was sitting in my class instead of at his grandparents’ lake house, where he usually spent his summer weekends.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I remember what I was wearing, probably because Ryan won’t let me forget it. I do know that my make-up was awful, I had bangs, and I still had braces on my teeth. Nonetheless, Ryan said the first time he saw me, he knew he would marry me. I had just turned fourteen; he had just turned fifteen.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He waited a full year before asking me out. He and my dad rode bikes the day of our first date, sophomore year Homecoming. For some reason, he kissed me. For some reason, I let him. Then, for a reason known as humiliation, I avoided him for a full year.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For some reason, he didn’t give up on me, and a year later he asked me to Homecoming our junior year. For some reason, one of his friends asked very publicly if we were a couple (we weren’t), and, not wanting to embarrass him in front of his friends, I said that it was up to Ryan. Ryan, of course, said that we were a couple.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For some reason, we stayed a couple most of the rest of high school. (I did break up with him our senior year for a month or two and for reasons I won’t discuss on this blog because they seem very lame now. Let’s just say I had a crush on another boy, and that other boy never made a move.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For reasons entirely obvious, we went to college together. Ryan asked me to marry him after the fall semester of our junior year (WE WERE SO YOUNG), and I said yes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We wed the summer before our senior year of college, and I guess that is where the real story of our family begins.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our life together has taken lots of twists and turns, not the least of which has been our move to our current Kansan city. The woman who hired Ryan put us in contact with a local realtor. As she drove us around town, she pointed out area high schools where I might be interested in teaching. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wasn’t planning on teaching here.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For some reason, I hastily applied anyway at one school. For some reason, when they called to schedule an interview, I said yes. For some reason, they had a vacancy in the subject area I taught, for the next semester, with my very favorite curriculum. And for some reason, they hired me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One of that school’s board members introduced Ryan to his son-in-law, and Ryan has since worked for both men. Those jobs have allowed me to stop teaching and to stay home with our daughters, and those men have introduced both of us to a wonderful local community.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We have become a family here. This is where we learned very difficult professional lessons, home-owner lessons, marriage lessons, and relationship lessons. This is where we have grown our family to three, four, and five members.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What if my parents hadn’t moved to St. Louis? What if Ryan had given up on me when I kept giving him reasons to? What if I hadn’t become a teacher? What if we hadn’t had our exact realtor?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sometimes, it’s fun to play the <i>what if</i> game. But right now, I am just so very grateful that all of the little details in my life have worked out just so, so that I am sitting in this house at this address in this city with this husband beside me and those girls upstairs not sleeping even when they should be.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I love our family’s story. And I think we should know more about other people’s stories. The next time you see me, unless I am heavily drugged in a hospital room or equally drugged with the potent sleep-deprivation-because-a-newborn-lives-here phenomena, please tell me your story. I would really love to hear it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*As you read, please assume I acknowledge God directed all of the details that led me to this point in my life. I could never, ever, have built a life like I have.</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-52248722696888398072012-05-22T08:33:00.000-05:002012-05-22T08:33:00.467-05:00In which I post a pregnancy picture<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">BAM </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZSxsRH_c4lJVCHMaOUcyymvTDcBFvmOYqOqmqkIPkXHAxQRBPZu3pZQFKheiLq1n4mWKTXnU_KDN7yKMDmr01NN41Jt7JQ6w0Hc4eksHaEo-jIlMaIio83pdDt_LbMclNQRXr_tr5q8/s1600/IMG_5966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZSxsRH_c4lJVCHMaOUcyymvTDcBFvmOYqOqmqkIPkXHAxQRBPZu3pZQFKheiLq1n4mWKTXnU_KDN7yKMDmr01NN41Jt7JQ6w0Hc4eksHaEo-jIlMaIio83pdDt_LbMclNQRXr_tr5q8/s320/IMG_5966.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<i>38 1/2 weeks pregnant</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-18108885441335261852012-05-19T16:06:00.000-05:002012-05-19T16:11:15.673-05:00Memories<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If I think about it too much, I get really anxious about how quickly our time on this earth passes. Even if we do make it to 80 or 90 years old, that’s not very long to be alive. Every day that passes is a day I don’t get back . . . my wedding day, the birth of my first child, the last time Madeline slept in her crib . . . these are all memories now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">Memories. I know I’m only 29 (ok, to be perfectly honest, I will be 30 in two more months), but already memories hold significant meaning for me. I can only imagine how much I will treasure memories in another fifty years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">I have been exceedingly blessed to have only happy memories. Sure, I remember hard seasons of life, like my first year of marriage, and I remember unhappy seasons of life, like when I had an identity crisis after Coralie was born, but the vast majority of my memories are happy. Even stages that are supposed to be full of heartache and difficulty (like the teen years) are only remembered in terms of how much my parents fought for me to make wise decisions and how much love there was in our home. Yes, I am sure there were many fights and I know there were many tears, and I am sure my histrionics made my parents want to send me away, but that’s not what I <i>remember</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">If all goes as things should, I will be bringing my third daughter home in a few weeks. My time as a mother of two little ones is quickly coming to a close. Yes, the days are so very long, but the years have flown by. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">These are some of the memories I have.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>The day I became a mother</i></span></div>
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<i>The day I became a mother of two</i></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>The day my babies became sisters</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>Sisters becoming friends</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>Dress up days</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>Bedtime snuggles</i></span></div>
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<i>Time at the lake</i></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>Many, many trips to the zoo with my girls</i></span></div>
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<i>Morning toy time</i></div>
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<i>My Mads Cat</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHYZMtxguxextBIAxZ1dShyMN70lP4auIetz_dYqAhh1NFdt7th71rWaEtJISWDj6bLf0m4j_POse9j6OFFoNbc_SYgOIR1TfnyaeQiVve3LNJwOaZ3vmdy5Rov671KW8U_tj7YJ2hCrU/s1600/IMG_8249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHYZMtxguxextBIAxZ1dShyMN70lP4auIetz_dYqAhh1NFdt7th71rWaEtJISWDj6bLf0m4j_POse9j6OFFoNbc_SYgOIR1TfnyaeQiVve3LNJwOaZ3vmdy5Rov671KW8U_tj7YJ2hCrU/s320/IMG_8249.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>My eternal Fairy Princess Coralie</i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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And most recently, these (with credit going to Angela Kleinsasser Photography and Design):</div>
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<i>Best Friends Forever</i></div>
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<i>The wild, nonverbal, precocious Madeline</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWFL0vd8x2-xtyabFRa_DYalCZ4RGiC6T8OcNYQSDGDAqKofvw9HJcz2rR7BUfj35DCpeaxG9hccNcHADVmYd7FW2k6uvX2XtLB_R-k1J5JtWquykodFCmZqlpJXngrnHnuiJ05hfdTQc/s1600/IMG_0573f.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWFL0vd8x2-xtyabFRa_DYalCZ4RGiC6T8OcNYQSDGDAqKofvw9HJcz2rR7BUfj35DCpeaxG9hccNcHADVmYd7FW2k6uvX2XtLB_R-k1J5JtWquykodFCmZqlpJXngrnHnuiJ05hfdTQc/s320/IMG_0573f.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<i>The sweet, smart, very verbal Coralie</i></div>
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<i>No, they're not always picture perfect, but they're MINE</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgonWFDKV6bKwDuMwDnZbQqjJfZQzWYIKGTUz1TtSQaKPX5rhGzJvNIvbST9nsSyC1aV9tqtUlWG1ESZiUkb_iaSGEUex2z1uKaGvorkD83TIKMsZfxEuWxFavgqWf0S9oI7kZ0F3aZzsQ/s1600/IMG_0654f.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgonWFDKV6bKwDuMwDnZbQqjJfZQzWYIKGTUz1TtSQaKPX5rhGzJvNIvbST9nsSyC1aV9tqtUlWG1ESZiUkb_iaSGEUex2z1uKaGvorkD83TIKMsZfxEuWxFavgqWf0S9oI7kZ0F3aZzsQ/s320/IMG_0654f.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>My cup overflows</i></div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-55374645040841866892012-05-08T11:55:00.001-05:002012-05-08T11:59:42.768-05:00It's never my faultThis tricky little convenient tool called the iPad caused me to delete my post on <i>The 19th Wife</i>. And also to delete another "musing" I had written on how much I loathe cliches. I, in all my blogging wisdom, didn't save copies of those posts anywhere else, so now they are totally gone.<br />
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<div>
I am sure you are heartbroken. And also mad at the iPad like I am.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
And to add salt (?) to the wound, I have no musings cooking in my head right now to replace those posts. All I am thinking about these days is how to take a quick nap when my girls are awake, how to take a nap when my girls are resting, and how to keep Ryan up until 11 or so at night when I become tired again. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
On the baby front, this little girl is big! Like, she is measuring two weeks farther along than Coralie and Madeline were at this stage. Someone asked me at church on Sunday if I was having twins. Uhhh ... I sure hope not! That surprise would mean an epic fail of prenatal monitoring and diagnostic technology. All signs are pointing to a single baby girl with a small(ish) head (WHEW) and long arms and legs.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I am planning on posting a belly picture at some point. I don't normally post pictures of my pregnant belly, but a few people have asked for one, so instead of posting it on Facebook where people don't have a choice of whether or not the picture shows up in their newsfeed, I will post it on the blog where people can choose whether or not to click and see this Large Marge Mama. You have been warned.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I guess what I'm saying is, this might not be <i>BondMusings</i> so much as <i>BondFamilyHappenings</i> for awhile. Once I can get baby off the brain, maybe that can make room for some more intelligent thoughts.</div>
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<div>
In the meantime, I will leave you with two things. </div>
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<div>
First, a quote from CS Lewis a dear friend left in the comments of my last post:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">“My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time. He shatters it Himself. He is the great iconoclast. Could we not almost say that this shattering is one of the marks of His presence? The Incarnation is the supreme example; it leaves all previous ideas of the Messiah in ruins” (<i>A Grief Observed </i>p. 52).</span></blockquote>
I love so many things about that quote. I love that Lewis is not complacent in his view of God, but that he is open to discovering new ways of looking at our loving, complex God. I also love that he is disciplined?generous? enough to work through and <u>share</u> his re-renderings in all of his writings. (And, by the way, I would argue that his idea of God <i>is</i> a divine idea.) But most importantly, I love thinking about the fact that God himself will not be made into an idol, that He shatters that idol in front of anyone who has eyes. God is loving, yes, but He is also innovative and aggressive and deliberate in how He reveals Himself to us. God is anything but boring or predictable.<br />
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And second, a picture of these beautiful daughters of mine:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGyptYWEtIExZK5lsjTGz1HsceM50DBkqCynAcy9-pQaitX5Q_ihv6JEo6BHV8Rn9Ceg9OvN7hVVpTvWisJrqO3hpkp2bqXSG60Oal8kmMI7J_AyHpVlccCRo-fNySFuejBZMnpVd9MQ/s1600/IMG_0555color.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGyptYWEtIExZK5lsjTGz1HsceM50DBkqCynAcy9-pQaitX5Q_ihv6JEo6BHV8Rn9Ceg9OvN7hVVpTvWisJrqO3hpkp2bqXSG60Oal8kmMI7J_AyHpVlccCRo-fNySFuejBZMnpVd9MQ/s320/IMG_0555color.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Kinda makes sifting through a post about nothing w o r t h i t, doesn't it?<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-71170830830931511912012-05-04T08:15:00.000-05:002012-05-04T08:15:00.441-05:00Till We Have Faces (CS Lewis)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQxVNZlf85KxzVjBr-mPIKbJVIo7teiQx-dc4ghzeMRPhkVCJtKuldnBIM1JO7et2jcDHSwVtUJe70URYD2OZawSPboqaQ6wbXEuNLSjd82hW_85-6HqmVdcopIfNFfT3QB-926hqMUMw/s1600/tillwehavefaces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQxVNZlf85KxzVjBr-mPIKbJVIo7teiQx-dc4ghzeMRPhkVCJtKuldnBIM1JO7et2jcDHSwVtUJe70URYD2OZawSPboqaQ6wbXEuNLSjd82hW_85-6HqmVdcopIfNFfT3QB-926hqMUMw/s320/tillwehavefaces.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=till+we+have+faces&hl=en&client=safari&sa=X&rls=en&biw=1274&bih=873&tbm=isch&prmd=imvnsb&tbnid=dYCyflhP6dh3aM:&imgrefurl=http://www.paysonlibrary.org/book-club-till-we-have-faces/&docid=oaUft08CesyK3M&imgurl=http://www.paysonlibrary.org/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/tillwehavefaces.jpg&w=332&h=500&ei=yoKVT97_Aqad2QWG0pky&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=323&vpy=157&dur=821&hovh=276&hovw=183&tx=122&ty=131&sig=114348426927891563394&page=1&tbnh=159&tbnw=136&start=0&ndsp=28&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:0,i:85" target="_blank">Via</a> (Side note: Coralie kept asking why that girl was wearing a trash bag. I have no idea what she was talking about.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Oh, Jack. I could not -- literally <i>could not</i> -- love you more. Every time I think, "CS Lewis is <i>my</i> favorite author, but it's not like he is the best there ever was," I read another of his books and I think "Oh, yes. He IS the best there ever was. Ever ever ever ever ever." And then I add an "Amen" to that.<br />
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Our latest book for book club was <i>Till We Have Faces</i>. I hadn't read it in a few years, but I remembered liking the book when I first read it. Oh my. That was an under-remembrance. Lewis hits his thousandth home run with this book. It is his version of the mythological story of Cupid and Psyche, and he somehow incorporates God into it in a way that is mysterious and lovely, without ever actually mentioning God.<br />
<br />
Back story: Psyche was a mortal woman who was more beautiful than any woman ever was. Cupid's mother (Venus? I'm too lazy to look it up.) was jealous and sent her son Cupid to shoot Psyche with an arrow that would make her fall in love with a base man. Instead, Cupid himself falls in love with her (I think he was surprised by her beauty and accidentally shot himself with that arrow?); this, of course, infuriates Venus, and <i>blah blah blah</i> the wrath of the gods, etc.<br />
<br />
In Lewis' version, the story is more about Psyche and her sister Orual, who loved her with an all-consuming selfish love. In the telling of the story, Lewis challenges his readers to rethink whether their love is selfish or life-giving, whether the gods are manipulative or generous, and whether they (his readers) have the wisdom to discern the difference anyway.<br />
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In short, it's brilliant. I don't know how Lewis is able to re-tell mythology* and bring his reader to a better understanding of who our loving God is, but he does.<br />
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IN SUMMATION: READ THIS BOOK.<br />
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*I could say so, so much more on this subject, but Lewis believes that mythology <i>is</i> relevant in religion. He thinks the pagan imagination is (divinely?) inspired to produce mythology, and that mythology became fact in the Incarnation. He also believes that myths are a more compelling medium through which to communicate TRUTH than is pure logical rhetoric.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-381808106639966672012-04-23T11:07:00.000-05:002012-04-23T11:07:02.465-05:00A self-reprimand and a catch-upMe: Hey, did you know that it's been MORE THAN a month since you've posted on your blog?<br />
Me: ...<br />
Me: You should feel guilty about this.<br />
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<br />
I guess the upside to this being my blog is that while the guilt of absence totally belongs to me, so does the judgment that is meted out. Thankfully, I decided to cut myself some slack.<br />
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So, let's catch up on this past month. Let's see. . . we moved Madeline into Coralie's room this past week. There are some serious parties happening in there when the lights go out. Some of the parties die off around 10pm and then resume at 4am. I love to hear their giggles, but someone please tell me that these parties don't last forever and that I will indeed have well rested older children by the time I bring a newborn home!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I promise that's not a dresser drawer. That is a trundle bed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The girls LOVE sharing a room. They are best friends (for now? forever?) and actually want to go to bed (although I have a feeling it's for the parties and not for the sleeping, because I am smart like that).<br />
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<br />
Also, I am bigger now. (Side note: does anyone else find it strange that anyone -- A N Y O N E -- can feel the freedom to touch a pregnant woman's stomach or comment on how she looks? It is just so strange to have men I hardly know commenting on how I look pregnant. I mean, people are very kind in their comments of course, but still. I am not sure I am comfortable with people noticing how my body is changing. And also, I realize this might sound braggy, but I promise it's not. I don't think I look different at all, but other people apparently do. For instance, people have been telling me how beautiful I look, as if this is a total contrast to how I normally look. The first few times I was told I look beautiful, I was all, "Oh, thanks! That is such a nice thing to say!" But now, I'm all [internally of course] "What, do I normally look like a dog? Why is everyone so SURPRISED that I look ok? Even Ryan told me that he 'actually liked my face' one day. DO I NEED TO INVEST IN SOME PREGNANCY HORMONES TO MAKE PEOPLE TOLERATE MY FACE AT ALL ONCE THIS BABY COMES OUT? Because I am starting to be paranoid about this.) Insecurities aside, I feel pretty good. I don't feel as big as I look (but then again, I may not be a good judge of how I look), and as long as I take Zantac, my pregnancy symptoms are relegated to the baby's movements.<br />
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I think I have nothing else to report. We hang out here some days, go to the zoo other days, and just generally eat, sleep, and play. Ryan's company's annual meeting is this week, so I will not see him until either Thursday night or Friday morning. I have lots of playdates and activities scheduled to break up the days.<br />
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Oh, I have also been Prepping for Baby. No, I haven't washed a stitch of laundry or packed for the hospital, but I <i>have</i> been cleaning quite a bit. Baseboards, windows (which are already finger-printed again), doors, etc have never looked better. This baby may not have clean clothes to wear, but, by golly, she will come home to a clean(ish) house!<br />
<br />
Ok, the girls have been drawing on their kitchen while I type, and I am pretending not to notice, but I better intervene before things get (more) out of control.<br />
<br />
Peace out.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-11544199067589726492012-03-19T08:54:00.001-05:002012-03-19T08:54:00.211-05:00Of noteSo my 100th post (the one right before this) was a measly one. I had hopes of doing something special for that 100th post, but instead, you got unsolicited advice. My apologies.<br />
<br />
(Also, and I don't want to read too much into this, but I find it telling that I offered unsolicited advice yet again when I meant to say something much more helpful.)<br />
<br />
Ah, well. Onward I go.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-9189496475386204332012-03-16T14:03:00.000-05:002012-03-16T14:03:18.608-05:00Some unsolicited adviceHave the courage to say no.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, that is the very best thing for everyone involved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-26108647974642220192012-03-01T08:57:00.001-06:002012-03-16T14:02:30.332-05:00Killing LincolnShould I be worried that our book club chose books back-to-back about assassinating presidents? Like, should I alert Homeland Security? I was pretty sure we are a benign group of women, but now I'm not so sure.<br />
<br />
Just kidding. Our latest "book-chooser" is a government teacher and a lawyer; I think that probably played into the genre a little. :)<br />
<br />
Anyway, we read <i>Killing Lincoln </i>by Bill O'Reilly. Observe the cover: does it indict O'Reilly in the assassination? O'Reilly says that there are many complicated conspiracies regarding Lincoln's assassination. . . maybe he was part of one!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHFNy47R9DIY-vUwsOt9uuhDRzOw2VWh7Y16eZBLyD1qeMsUsTvgzhCyhpVEkO53LpCBbv9NhQTphhw7_xTgGA2z4muB1xpmH1pnZqBYofgqHmybWVsdcknYqLEYEu0vlBuE6JWC1kh4M/s1600/10587120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHFNy47R9DIY-vUwsOt9uuhDRzOw2VWh7Y16eZBLyD1qeMsUsTvgzhCyhpVEkO53LpCBbv9NhQTphhw7_xTgGA2z4muB1xpmH1pnZqBYofgqHmybWVsdcknYqLEYEu0vlBuE6JWC1kh4M/s320/10587120.jpg" width="209" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10587120-killing-lincoln" target="_blank">Via</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I would give this book a B-. First of all, and the rest of the book club disagreed with me, I thought there was too much narrative on the Civil War. It felt like a historian couldn't help himself and went overboard on details of battles and such. Much like if you asked me what a modifier is. . . I could literally go on and on and on. And not everyone would appreciate it.<br />
<br />
Second of all, there were actually four historical errors in the book, including a reference to the Oval Office (which wasn't completed until after Lincoln's death).<br />
<br />
But there were a lot of interesting details, too. Like how interconnected Lincoln and his assassin were: John Wilkes Booth was secretly engaged to a woman who also spent some time with Lincoln's son. And also, Booth's brother saved Lincoln's son from being run over by a train (or something like that. . . as I am not a historian, I do not feel an obligation to be historically accurate.)<br />
<br />
Let me just say that Booth was a psychopath. I truly believe he was deluded into thinking he would be a hero for killing Lincoln. Our book club all agreed that we think fame was his primary motivation and not some righteous political objective. When he was in hiding after the assassination and learned via newspapers that people were calling him a coward and a criminal instead of a hero, he was devastated. Duh, dude. YOU KILLED THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES FIVE DAYS AFTER HE WON THE WAR.<br />
<br />
As I said, we read this right after we read <i>The Kennedy Detail</i>, and did you know there are some crazy similarities between the two assassinations? It's almost too much to believe, and <a href="http://www.snopes.com/history/american/lincoln-kennedy.asp" target="_blank">yet there the proof is</a>.<br />
<br />
If you are a fan of O'Reilly or Lincoln but not a fan of big, intense history books, you might like this one. It read pretty quickly (except for the battle stuff, but like I said, I was alone in that) and gave a good overview of who was who during that era of our history.<br />
<br />
Our next book is <i>The 19th Wife</i>, and having just finished it, I cannot WAIT to share the details with you. It was crazy fascinating. But we don't meet until the end of the month, so you'll have to wait awhile for the recap. :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-71332297448088341302012-02-28T19:03:00.000-06:002012-02-28T19:03:29.899-06:00Valentine's DayI know, I know. This is so late it's not even relevant now, but since I haven't written in FOREVER, I have a lot of catching up to do.<br />
<br />
So here is my general philosophy on Valentine's Day: it's awkward. The expectations of connecting with your spouse in a crowded restaurant while you pay an arm and a leg for someone to babysit the fruit of your love (uh, the kids) is just unreasonable.<br />
<br />
So, I rebel.<br />
<br />
In my opinion (and I thank God I married a man who validates my opinions and is willing to go along with my numerous, strange requests), our wedding anniversary is the date when we celebrate the commitment we have made to each other. Valentine's Day is about love, and I want to include my children in that celebration.<br />
<br />
So here's what we do:<br />
<br />
We dress up.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyp8Cg7-NGet3kjNUVphBdsFW080eQGyZwmyEv7rpD3INWSNV63FaXonzkmjkHWavai1p0jT25ZAezXqhXL4eBvwbggwNIJipxSAG8EnOENXH_glb3jQOStaaIYgYsfmyaJbcdZJPjNF0/s1600/IMG_5778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyp8Cg7-NGet3kjNUVphBdsFW080eQGyZwmyEv7rpD3INWSNV63FaXonzkmjkHWavai1p0jT25ZAezXqhXL4eBvwbggwNIJipxSAG8EnOENXH_glb3jQOStaaIYgYsfmyaJbcdZJPjNF0/s320/IMG_5778.JPG" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxIqSRbaiL4KUCqrbQo_ob2Qkfe_zPSN_UfHqPJxcCbHYlBe-7VyuXFnptiXYuK3jB39tgeNphhtIPnsJl5t-7UpIFtKjZqXJRJmfZRCpVicuL-T9K3hO7yjx2GXQxM51PwiO-DlkzQ4/s1600/IMG_5783.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxIqSRbaiL4KUCqrbQo_ob2Qkfe_zPSN_UfHqPJxcCbHYlBe-7VyuXFnptiXYuK3jB39tgeNphhtIPnsJl5t-7UpIFtKjZqXJRJmfZRCpVicuL-T9K3hO7yjx2GXQxM51PwiO-DlkzQ4/s320/IMG_5783.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJdBhHMniiAdzu2-lX-TyKQBnewFV5ArBUh4GyvGfdOD3em1qUe3lfQWwHx7xO1Z87bXp3UOLYbKt7NUpcQUwghc0Kimmu4ej77-PPShAdKQDhjgE4-ipBt7ML1pAQWrVSm0gSrQx6E9M/s1600/IMG_5788.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJdBhHMniiAdzu2-lX-TyKQBnewFV5ArBUh4GyvGfdOD3em1qUe3lfQWwHx7xO1Z87bXp3UOLYbKt7NUpcQUwghc0Kimmu4ej77-PPShAdKQDhjgE4-ipBt7ML1pAQWrVSm0gSrQx6E9M/s320/IMG_5788.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
We have a nice candlelit dinner (Papa Murphy's heart-shaped pizza, salad, sparkling grape juice) with the kids. At dinner, we talk about how much we love each other and how much we love our girls and how Valentine's Day is a day to celebrate our family's love for each other. (Sorry if that was a little cheesy.)<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrH0DJJmEw_l4qzjcXVCnNxQsPdK2g6es1glbKthMd9hnaSCeO3_dEVqyAyf8cTFKnxp_DfHH7KqOUhVIbIyF9fOOVA14Ux3JSKgAzgGQ7XXy55hVnkUPIwyHi7Ia1jc5k7QvOY7ygP3M/s1600/IMG_5786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrH0DJJmEw_l4qzjcXVCnNxQsPdK2g6es1glbKthMd9hnaSCeO3_dEVqyAyf8cTFKnxp_DfHH7KqOUhVIbIyF9fOOVA14Ux3JSKgAzgGQ7XXy55hVnkUPIwyHi7Ia1jc5k7QvOY7ygP3M/s1600/IMG_5786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrH0DJJmEw_l4qzjcXVCnNxQsPdK2g6es1glbKthMd9hnaSCeO3_dEVqyAyf8cTFKnxp_DfHH7KqOUhVIbIyF9fOOVA14Ux3JSKgAzgGQ7XXy55hVnkUPIwyHi7Ia1jc5k7QvOY7ygP3M/s320/IMG_5786.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The kids open the presents.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibwlBC50Jp9YFe1V6SI9NIROSqxuxNCMNchKhAZOZbL47QzC1qFny-v3JKtEViBb6IUyM7bkIpds9bbl9iCwNrpMz5jWWI5GXJCdiJqxWS02WGLEx4IkIwoOPtuuKKfjBx9gqEBSYN8nI/s1600/IMG_5794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibwlBC50Jp9YFe1V6SI9NIROSqxuxNCMNchKhAZOZbL47QzC1qFny-v3JKtEViBb6IUyM7bkIpds9bbl9iCwNrpMz5jWWI5GXJCdiJqxWS02WGLEx4IkIwoOPtuuKKfjBx9gqEBSYN8nI/s320/IMG_5794.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAf0eASoDukX7FM28no4ByvYkF_VGO1a65xvbjCzmdgCboEcOeftfpW6DLPN26JxPtlJxke9-pyJKTgZlfrEZJFAouXaKZ761Mr0X4wJd8vrOZaZI1tAmedgwIlnAPr5pPhQlM_ps1P_c/s1600/IMG_5797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAf0eASoDukX7FM28no4ByvYkF_VGO1a65xvbjCzmdgCboEcOeftfpW6DLPN26JxPtlJxke9-pyJKTgZlfrEZJFAouXaKZ761Mr0X4wJd8vrOZaZI1tAmedgwIlnAPr5pPhQlM_ps1P_c/s320/IMG_5797.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
We play with the presents.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgYVfQK2wr-Z2rMoXD-nVC1mJdt62xxgxzQQcJWdB5T0GJHL-FkwM-sSmn4KLqbJCQiWifr6wo_j0iTkYjozYBtKv41XEAsaLXPmrVXPna_O1sDBizooAm0q0ipdiclP4hUPTFrTDXYg/s1600/IMG_5802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgYVfQK2wr-Z2rMoXD-nVC1mJdt62xxgxzQQcJWdB5T0GJHL-FkwM-sSmn4KLqbJCQiWifr6wo_j0iTkYjozYBtKv41XEAsaLXPmrVXPna_O1sDBizooAm0q0ipdiclP4hUPTFrTDXYg/s320/IMG_5802.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFDEQr5Wfz9TKe6G6-3JR6rDjBVKQBEDBxHb1SMKiJOqdDSRE-Apwmyg15XAd_R3pg1C_1trC3vOytWyl4sbyRUfYUvtYpOucozmaWaJqiosEq8NLVDL5_rjR_u4aVkMyi-aKHfTJ_As/s1600/IMG_5809.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFDEQr5Wfz9TKe6G6-3JR6rDjBVKQBEDBxHb1SMKiJOqdDSRE-Apwmyg15XAd_R3pg1C_1trC3vOytWyl4sbyRUfYUvtYpOucozmaWaJqiosEq8NLVDL5_rjR_u4aVkMyi-aKHfTJ_As/s320/IMG_5809.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1njdXBUmivIOyi1LTeCzBln9c5QG0DUkyh3xa4sgtO9yt3yC0iYT0qczA659ji2lIeGA1mKWexrt8n92f8lKDtk7vxjQlTdHHlix9RFRKujVm2H1FxGRaaxx8yzTvYyoyDdh1Yi5RgQ/s1600/IMG_5807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1njdXBUmivIOyi1LTeCzBln9c5QG0DUkyh3xa4sgtO9yt3yC0iYT0qczA659ji2lIeGA1mKWexrt8n92f8lKDtk7vxjQlTdHHlix9RFRKujVm2H1FxGRaaxx8yzTvYyoyDdh1Yi5RgQ/s320/IMG_5807.JPG" width="213" /></a></div><br />
And we eat a wedding cake. Not the whole cake, obviously. Ryan just orders the cake topper.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjQG9uC3vYtUOG-zTtE7I2hvhYfxZU80bUUAAHb0yoH2i50oytZeVgHiPbvNHh3sEv2fG-5D1XkanRqZStX6oknB1YKtjoBgI8VMhfNSkyer949ztXFNE71TiRNPjEcZxXJueSm2omNrQ/s1600/IMG_5816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjQG9uC3vYtUOG-zTtE7I2hvhYfxZU80bUUAAHb0yoH2i50oytZeVgHiPbvNHh3sEv2fG-5D1XkanRqZStX6oknB1YKtjoBgI8VMhfNSkyer949ztXFNE71TiRNPjEcZxXJueSm2omNrQ/s320/IMG_5816.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I have really loved creating traditions with our family. I know every family does Valentine's Day differently, and I think however you celebrate (or not), that's great. The important thing is to feel loved, to love, and to know that Hallmark (isn't that to whom we are supposed to direct all our snarky comments about Valentine's Day being a commercial holiday, etc?) isn't the one who dictates what you do on that day.<br />
<br />
One important detail: at the end of the evening, after I felt we had really driven home the point of Valentine's Day, I asked Coralie what Valentine's Day is all about. She said, "Having a PARTY!!!!!!" So. We're still working on that.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-24422929159935325242012-01-26T08:48:00.001-06:002012-01-26T08:48:00.113-06:00The Kennedy Detail (Gerald Blaine)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFMZw01tSelXomp2Np4SdI9MJF4A5mUl7U6IwuBSNQyEduUlejueQT3Ke4SWZAb4CsK7hRE78nFOLSj8R9wqX_GB2wyiCVBxm1ESEDhC9sD1XrLvHHOWXIYAmsH9s6T1WlOvsVm3N7Ck/s1600/KennedyDetailCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFMZw01tSelXomp2Np4SdI9MJF4A5mUl7U6IwuBSNQyEduUlejueQT3Ke4SWZAb4CsK7hRE78nFOLSj8R9wqX_GB2wyiCVBxm1ESEDhC9sD1XrLvHHOWXIYAmsH9s6T1WlOvsVm3N7Ck/s320/KennedyDetailCover.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>Our most recent book for our book club was <a href="http://www.kennedydetail.com/" target="_blank"><em>The Kennedy Detail</em> by Gerald Blaine</a>. It is, naturally, about the Secret Service Detail assigned to JFK during his presidency and especially on the day of his assassination, and it is written by one of the men on JFK's detail.<br />
<br />
Do I recommend this book? Yes and no. The topic was indeed fascinating, but the telling of the narrative was a bit. . . slow. The book is more than four hundred pages long, so if you have the time to read four hundred rather slow pages, knock yourself out. I did! You'll learn lots of interesting facts. If you don't have lots of time to sift through a l l t h o s e w o r d s , then call me and I can give you a synopsis of the most interesting facets of <em>The Kennedy Detail</em>.<br />
<br />
In Blaine's defense, he really did do a great job re-telling the story of JFK's assassination. By nature, Secret Service men and women are very detail-oriented and tend to file away in their minds a wealth of information about each and every scenario in which they find themselves. So you could say it was his DUTY to turn those six seconds in Dallas in November of 1963 into four hundred pages. <br />
<br />
But here! Some broad-stroke, interesting-to-all take-aways for you:<br />
-The Secret Service does not believe what the general public believes about the Kennedys and all of their alleged affairs. They claim it was impossible for Marilyn Monroe and JFK to have had an affair. And I guess they would know, since they never left the president's side.<br />
<br />
-The men on duty during the assassination were tormented for the rest of their lives about their "failure" to do their jobs. Some were able to continue working for the Secret Service, but many retired to the private sector to escape the guilt they felt. One, Clint Hill (the man who ran up to the president's car after the shots were fired), was interviewed on <em>60 Minutes</em> in 1975, and the interviewer (Mike Wallace) said he had never seen a more broken, tormented man in all his life. You can see some clips <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCy3yqIOBI4" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
-Jackie was not crawling on the trunk of the car to reach the Secret Service agent Clint Hill after JFK was shot; she was actually crawling after bits of her husband's head that had. . . escaped from his body.<br />
<br />
-When JFK was assassinated, his detail consisted of forty over-worked men. Now the Secret Service is almost TEN TIMES that size. <br />
<br />
-All of the conspiracy theories are unfounded and can be explained away very easily and quickly. Blaine perfunctorily dedicated a whole chapter to this. I did a fair amount of internet research on these conspiracy theories, and I have to say that Blaine did indeed debunk them all. Which is sad, as we all love a good conspiracy. I guess we'll just have to turn our attention to the lunar landing!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Well, there you have it. Let me know your thoughts on this book if you've read it! (Or if you want to borrow it, let me know!)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-14107372693550021412012-01-19T08:25:00.003-06:002012-01-19T08:25:00.274-06:00The third time is not so charming (I'm talking about naming the baby, not the baby herself) (just to be clear)As I mentioned, we are having another little girl. I couldn't be happier! I love having little girls and watching them figure out girl things like purses and make-up and shoes. I also love that their daddy pushes them to be thinkers and designers and creators. <br />
<br />
I know there will be challenges in our future, not the least of which will be how to pay for three weddings or whether or not to allow dorky teenage boys to take our daughters anywhere or how to handle all the D R A M A that comes with teenage girls.<br />
<br />
But we have a more pressing problem.We have absolutely no idea what to name her. I opened up my Facebook page to suggestions, and I got about a kajillion good names thrown my way. But I am finding out that naming a child is a very personal decision. For instance, there were several votes for Kennedy, which is a name I also happen to adore. Also, there were some not-good-at-all names thrown my way, and I can't tell if these were offered up in jest or not. So. I will not be making the rest of this naming journey all-inclusive. (If you're one of the people who suggested a name, I assure you, I LOVED THE NAME.)<br />
<br />
I will share one more story about naming Baby Girl Number Three, though. One day, I asked Coralie for her input.<br />
<br />
Me: Coralie, what should we name your baby sister?<br />
Coralie: Coralie.<br />
Me: Well, that IS a lovely name, but couldn't that be confusing?<br />
C: No.<br />
Me: Well, what if I said, <em>Hey, Coralie, I have some candy for you!</em> Which Coralie would I be talking to?<br />
C: Me.<br />
Me: Ok, well, what if I said, <em>Coralie, you made a poor decision and disobeyed. Now you will have to get a spanking.</em> Which Coralie would I be talking to then?<br />
C: The other Coralie.<br />
Me: Oh.<br />
<br />
Well, then. Back to square one.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-39012920851853275502012-01-16T22:18:00.001-06:002012-01-16T22:24:43.533-06:00Six things you may not know1. While waiting in line to see Christmas lights a few weeks ago, a very angry mom accosted us. I don't know how it's possible that I never shared this story with you, but the whole event was so unbelievable that as soon as I knew we were not actually going to be gunned down, I said, "Oh. my. gosh. I have to blog about this."<br />
<br />
I started typing out what exactly happened, but it's very technically and sort of boring, so I'll condense it. <br />
<br />
A van tried to cut in the hour-plus long line to see the Christmas lights and no one would let it. So a woman, the passenger, gets out of her car and stands RIGHT IN FRONT OF OUR CAR so if we try to move forward, we will hit her. Like RUN OVER HER. Well, this is ridiculous, so Ryan honks. (There are police patrolling to keep crazy people like this from cutting in line, but they are nowhere to be found.) She marches over to Ryan's window, starts yelling and gesticulating and turning red in the face and ends her tirade with a "MERRY CHRISTMAS."<br />
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Unbeknownst to us, the car from MI in front of us thought that their car had been hit by this crazy family trying to cut in. So a passenger no shorter than 6'6" gets out to confront the lady. She yells at him, too! This lady had no scruples. The tall guy finally gets back in his car, and the woman whips something out of her jacket's inside pocket. I was CERTAIN it was a gun. (It wasn't-- it was a pen and pad of paper, and she made a big show of taking down the MI car's license plate.) But if anyone did conceal and carry in line to see Christmas lights? It would be this lady.<br />
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Then it all became very awkward as we HAD to let this van in line in front of us, though people behind us yelled and honked at the van in protest. So here is this hostile van, in between the confrontational MI car and us, who clearly didn't want to let it in, just tra-la-la-ing through the park, hanging out the windows and taking pictures of the pretty Christmas lights. Merry Christmas indeed.<br />
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2. I think Madeline may have broken my nose. At the very least, she chipped part of the bridge off and it is now floating elsewhere on my nose. What happened was this: some very nice evangelical women have been canvassing our neighborhood trying to convert people. Because I am already a Christian, we usually just end up chatting about this and that, and--I guess--we have become "friends." Well, they came back twice last week. Twice. The first time, I had less than an hour to get dressed, feed my kids, get my house show-ready, and get the kids out the door. I politely told them that it wasn't a good time to chat, and they cheerily said they would come back another day. Well, that other day was last Wednesday. Coralie, Mads, and I were playing in Coralie's room, and I saw the evangelicals walking up our driveway when I looked out Coralie's window. I DID NOT feel like chatting that day, so I did something heroic: I taught my children how to hide in a closet. I shoved the three of us into C's closet and told the girls to be quiet and to wait until those people walked away. Coralie was confused as to why I wouldn't want to open the front door, and Madeline just played along like she always does. Well, pretty soon, she found Coralie's toy golf club and started playing with it. Now, this is no ordinary toy golf club-- it is SOLID. It's from Pottery Barn, who I am sure you know makes every single product of theirs weigh three times more than their competitors do. So she picked up the club, raised it over her head, and before I knew what was happening, cracked it down on my nose. The worst part? I couldn't even cry out because we had to be quiet hiding from those nice women.<br />
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3. I am eating an absurd amount of mac and cheese these days. I don't really even know why. Last night I made a box at 9 pm while I watched the Golden Globes. I'm not proud of it, but I did it.<br />
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4. We had our sonogram, and we are having another little girl. Besides the excitement of having a healthy baby girl join our family, I am also experiencing a mild amount of panic over the cost and drama of having THREE GIRLS. I'm not so worried about the next few years, but I am TERRIFIED about what will happen in 13 years. You know, when we have THREE TEENAGE GIRLS. THREE. TEENAGE GIRLS.<br />
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5. I turned down an opportunity to do some tutoring. This was hard for me, as I really enjoy 1) working with teenagers, 2) using my brain, and 3) making money. But, alas, the timing wasn't good for our family.<br />
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6. I am sooooooooo behind on blogging the contents of my brain. I have two more posts I would like to write, but I don't know if I can stop playing Words With Friends long enough to type out anything besides words like "zeds" and "extractable" and "yak". But I'll try.<br />
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As Coralie would say, "peace out".Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-70330106731315977912012-01-05T22:34:00.000-06:002012-01-05T22:34:10.137-06:00A double whammyYou know how you can read something a million times, and then one time-- BAM!-- something totally new hits you about it? Last night in our Bible study, we were studying the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand, and two things surprised me.<br />
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1. The story opens with Jesus telling his disciples, "Hey, let's go somewhere quiet together and get some rest." <br />
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Here, I am thinking, "Jesus, you had me at hello. I'd LOVE to go somewhere quiet and get some rest."<br />
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Then, when Jesus and his disciples arrive at the appointed place, they find that more than five thousand people have walked to that very place to wait for them<br />
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Here, I am thinking, "Brother, I <em>feel </em>you on this one! Everywhere I go, I am met with a (small) crowd. I can't <em>wait</em> to see how you disperse the crowd--I'll file that away and use it myself next time."<br />
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(Yes, I am an idiot in that I have read the story before and know how it ends, but still.)<br />
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Then, the Bible says that Jesus met them with compassion.<br />
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Here, I am thinking "Amen, brother! You tell 'em! Wait. . . what? You mean that when I sneak away to a remote corner of the house (ok, my closet) to read my emails and I hear four little feet running after me, I am supposed to meet my little girls with <em>compassion</em> instead of annoyance?"<br />
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Forget that Jesus fed five thousand men with five loaves of bread and two fish-- the REAL miracle is that he didn't snap the crowd's necks off and say, "CAN'T YOU SEE I NEED SOME TIME ALONE SO I CAN READ MY EMAILS, GIRLS?" Or, uh, something like that.<br />
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2. After reading all the way to the end of the story, our pastor's wife asked when we most feel the Lord working in our lives. I said that the Lord is <em>always</em> working in our lives; the changing factor is whether or not we acknowledge it.<br />
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Oh, yeah. That reminds me, I started this here blog so I can actively track how God is working in my life. I figured that if I could sit down and actually write some posts, it would mean that I would have had to have done some thinking and meditating beforehand, and that is usually when I see God working.<br />
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Ok, so I haven't announced this on my blog yet, but--surprise!--I am 19 weeks pregnant with our third little one. Also--surprise!--our house was put on the market this week. Also--surprise!--Ryan is teaching back-to-back sessions of a night class at our local university and won't be done with that assignment until my due date basically.<br />
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So to say that this is an insanely stressful and busy time for our family would be an understatement. Our house went on the market on Tuesday, and we have had five, FIVE, showings since Wednesday morning. Do you know what it takes to mobilize this tired pregnant mama and her two I'm-never-in-a-hurry-unless-you-bust-out-the-candy-basket kids? A lot. And twenty minutes' notice is not a lot of time to clean up the house, pretend like four people don't live there, and get the heck out of dodge.<br />
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Annnyway, last week as I saw in my mind's eye what these next few months could look like, I prayed that God would keep our spirits buoyed and our marriage intact. Oh, and if He could manage the sale of this house, the purchase of another one, Ryan's first job stresses, Ryan's second job stresses, my daily taskload, AND the growing of a fifth member of the family, that'd be peachy. But that all sounded greedy, so I just focused on asking for peace and joy in this time.<br />
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So. Here's how he has answered. We have had a remarkable amount of interest in our home, which is incredible since it is January of 2012, you know, the QUARTER OF DOOM in the real estate market, in the worst economy EVER. (Ok, so maybe the Great Depression was worse.) Five showings scheduled in under 48 hours?! That's awesome!<br />
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Also, I have felt very affirmed in my writing lately. It's a scary thing to put yourself out there in print, and I have felt nothing but encouragement that I should continue doing so.<br />
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Also, we sold our broken Blu-Ray player on Craigslist today (the DVD and WiFi still worked, so someone actually wanted it), and the guy who bought it asked Ryan where he worked. Long story short, this dude had heard of Ryan and his former side consulting business and said that someone had highly recommended to his firm that they hire Ryan! Not that Ryan could pursue that even if he wanted to, but that affirmation was a true God-send for him.<br />
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I write all this not to say how perfect our life is (see: trying to sell a house, juggle multiple jobs, and harness two small independent children) but to show how much more abundantly God answered my prayers than I could have imagined! <br />
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<a href="http://bondmusings.blogspot.com/2011/12/best-passage-in-all-of-literature.html" target="_blank">Just like Shasta learned that there had only been one Lion</a>, I am learning that God is so much bigger than a singularly-focused request.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-14785014590946096462011-12-21T07:59:00.001-06:002011-12-21T07:59:00.103-06:00A holiday reflectionThis time of year can be so busy. It seems like there's always a gift to buy, an errand to run, a package to mail, a party to attend.<br />
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But it's also magical. I have two young daughters, and I love seeing Christmastime though their eyes: their faces light up when we drive around to look at Christmas lights; they are so eager to receive the treat of a cup of hot chocolate; they squeal in delight when they see the blow-up Santa in our neighbor's front yard. They remind me that this unique time of year is to be thoroughly enjoyed.<br />
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I recently read a book called <em>The Biography of Santa Clause</em>. It's fiction, of course, but it has its roots in history. According to this account, a man from a city called Myrna became the man we know as St. Nicholas. Because Christ had come three hundred years earlier, Nicholas knew of Jesus and followed his teachings. He knew that we are to love one another and to take care of one another, so when he heard of a family in his community that needed help, he felt compelled to offer his. Nicholas understood that Jesus' point is for us to be kind and loving and generous, not for us to receive credit for good deeds. Nicholas deposited his gifts of aid in the family's house in the middle of the night so as not to be seen. Legend has it that he found such fulfillment in anonymously helping others that he made it his life's mission.<br />
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I love that account of St. Nicholas-- I think it's much better than the myths of Santa Clause that circulate today.<br />
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Christmas is a time when we acknowledge and celebrate the gift God gave us when he sent Jesus to Earth. I think it's abundantly appropriate to reflect on what Jesus did while here: He loved others.<br />
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I try to teach my girls that we don't just give random gifts to family and friends at Christmas: we try to show others that we know and love and want to delight them. And we don't just hastily grab a card off the Angel Tree at work, sigh, and add it to our long list of to-do's: we show a child that others care about her.<br />
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If you know my girls, you know they keep me on my toes. But they also teach me to be deliberate, especially at this time of year. I want them to remember the holidays as a time to love and honor others, be they family or strangers. That's what Jesus did when he came to Earth so many centuries ago. My girls may not understand theology yet, but they understand love and generosity.<br />
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So you can say that my 3 and 1 year old have helped me rediscover the joy of Christmas: that is celebrating the birth of a baby who became the greatest lover of people who ever lived.<br />
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Merry Christmas from my family to yours.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88399950660216417.post-9918867197888132662011-12-19T08:29:00.002-06:002011-12-19T08:29:00.284-06:00The best passage in all of literature<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGGEpLcFHpuGRf6eBUww8509pIwHH7WafZSz7_GINJCOKGufYBYl4NG1PuNXMeeJiue0xgflbaSu9d2A5h-2f3RGXSU9GejJvwe8eUao8MZYklQLVnsmsXxEsF2DdkpqiJtciwZJgx8E/s1600/200px-TheHorseAndHisBoy%25281stEd%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGGEpLcFHpuGRf6eBUww8509pIwHH7WafZSz7_GINJCOKGufYBYl4NG1PuNXMeeJiue0xgflbaSu9d2A5h-2f3RGXSU9GejJvwe8eUao8MZYklQLVnsmsXxEsF2DdkpqiJtciwZJgx8E/s1600/200px-TheHorseAndHisBoy%25281stEd%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?hl=en&sa=X&rls=com.microsoft:en-us&biw=1024&bih=429&tbm=isch&prmd=imvnsb&tbnid=yzBvaJIWFsMhjM:&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Horse_and_His_Boy&docid=0xOwIy2UfoAxJM&imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/f/f9/TheHorseAndHisBoy(1stEd).jpg/200px-TheHorseAndHisBoy(1stEd).jpg&w=200&h=306&ei=8i7uTo7cLuqIsQLRsNjiCQ&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=292&vpy=27&dur=1701&hovh=244&hovw=160&tx=79&ty=211&sig=107521014755212314885&page=1&tbnh=89&tbnw=58&start=0&ndsp=18&ved=1t:429,r:11,s:0" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>As you know, I am reading through <em>The Chronicles of Narnia </em>right now. I can't say enough about the perfection of these books-- they are . . . <em>perfect</em>. They are entertaining, quick to read, didactic, and most of all, they point to the wonderment of Jesus.<br />
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My favorite passage in all of the <em>Chronicles, </em>and therefore in all of literature,<em> </em>comes from <em>The Horse and His Boy</em>. I hope you've read it, but in case you haven't, here's a little back story:<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In a far-off land, a young boy named Shasta meets a talking horse from Narnia who convinces him to run away from his cruel master. Together, they encounter many dangers on their long journey to Narnia, not the least of which are all the lions that plague them. One night, Shasta --yet again--is met with a lion.This time, the lion walks quietly beside Shasta until Shasta speaks to him. The lion, who is of course Aslan but is referred to in this passage as "the Voice", asks Shasta to tell his story. Shasta recounts the past few weeks, including the many examples of his "bad luck" with lions.</div><br />
<em> "There was only one lion," said the Voice.</em><br />
<em> "What on earth do you mean? I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and --"</em><br />
<em> "There was only one; but he was swift of foot."</em><br />
<em> "How do you know?"</em><br />
<em> "I was the lion." And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. "I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."</em><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJ7gyjUl70yXRqU86v_hfBofRUoczEyyNhqLjjPC16P3na2qo4AaQG8cFUC6aw3fgv6CTaBxgwy3s2obXigoN6gU8NO1H-e7MznfhvRb9UzmO4tBxkCFqabFv_e0-gHwYZiXlN-ByoxA/s1600/aslan_resimleri17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="243" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJ7gyjUl70yXRqU86v_hfBofRUoczEyyNhqLjjPC16P3na2qo4AaQG8cFUC6aw3fgv6CTaBxgwy3s2obXigoN6gU8NO1H-e7MznfhvRb9UzmO4tBxkCFqabFv_e0-gHwYZiXlN-ByoxA/s320/aslan_resimleri17.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?hl=en&sa=X&rls=com.microsoft:en-us&biw=1024&bih=429&tbm=isch&prmd=imvns&tbnid=YDki1LRKBZLyNM:&imgrefurl=http://warriorcatsrpg.com/other-animals/.....sunset-pride-signups-lion-pride.....-178228.0.html&docid=yczY1KpPRxr9TM&imgurl=http://www.1resimler.com/data/media/1224/aslan_resimleri17.jpg&w=459&h=349&ei=Gy7uTuG6IITY2gXbrO2kDw&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=203&sig=107521014755212314885&page=3&tbnh=89&tbnw=129&start=29&ndsp=13&ved=1t:429,r:0,s:29&tx=101&ty=20">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em> </em><em>Shasta was no longer afraid that the Voice belonged to something that would eat him, nor that it was the voice of a ghost. But a new and different sort of trembling came over him. Yet he felt glad too </em><em>. . . after one glance at the Lion's face, he slipped out of the saddle and fell at its feet. He couldn't say anything but then he didn't want to say anything, and he knew he needn't say anything.</em></div><br />
Wow. How little we understand. How little we acknowledge God's sovereignty. How little we are in the greatness of God.<br />
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If ever there was a true instrument of God in the last century, surely it was CS Lewis. Thank you, God, for CS Lewis. And thank you, God, most of all, for Jesus. May we heed your Voice and believe in your plan.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2