The life I never dreamed of...

My little saint is growing up...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Tue, 01 Nov 2016 11:53:00 +0000

Dear Karis,

You are nine today. You stand at almost 5 feet tall and yet I try desperately to gather you into a "snuggle ball" into my lap. You haven't been one of my "littles" for a very long time and still I try to freeze time in my mind.

It's been a weird year for us. So much change. So much busy-ness. So little time for us. I find myself wracked with all kinds of mom guilt.

Your birthday is no exception. Normally we celebrate our little saint (born on All Saints Day) with a big ole' Fall Fest on Halloween - well, that was one of the big changes this year: no Fall Fest. Then we either have a family party or a friend party. This is the "family party year" and it just couldn't happen with all the schedules.

So, in our guilt, we've spread your birthday over the course of a week: a bedroom renovation, pumpkin carving with cousins, out to the movies on a school night, dinner with grandparents and an overnight friend. Well, I guess it wasn't so bad after all. Lol.

This has been a year of your mom and dad letting go and helping you to step into "big kid" life. You like your place as the baby, so taking steps to grow up isn't always something you want to do. It's been a challenge in some regards. We had to make some tough decisions and draw some hard lines in the sand. But now, looking back over the past year, we don't regret a minute of it.

You continue to be the funniest person in our family. You just still naturally know what will make us laugh.

During your room renovation, we found two large, plastic lizards that you used to hide all over the house in an effort to scare us -- when you were 3. I had found them in the pantry, in the shower and in the refrigerator at any given time during those months. And yes, I jumped every time.

When we found them at the bottom of your closet last week, you exclaimed, "Yes!! My prank lizards!" And have proceeded to hide them all over the house again. And yes, I jump every time.

As we continue to walk through some character development issues with you, we see that your love for Jesus and others grows daily. We are proud of you. You are filled with grace and forgiveness, and lately, I feel like I require a lot of that from you.

I love you, Boo.

Mom

My "escaped convict" before her class Halloween Party.

Sometimes the internet makes my eye twitch...like that weird little squirrel from Ice Age...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Thu, 16 Jun 2016 15:30:00 +0000

Hey Internet,  I don't do this very often. But I'm worn out and I just feel like I need to say this.  I think we can all agree that it's been a really awful stretch these past few weeks. Can I suggest that, going forward, we all agree to play nice and really, really think before we share that article or post that thought? Heaven forbid any of us walk through such terrifying situations and tragedies let alone in the eyes of the public and their many and varying opinions on what we would or wouldn't have done or where they should or shouldn't have been. 
I remember when my mom passed away, a woman I literally had not seen since I was a young child, and as far as I knew hadn't been an active part of my mother's life in decades, had seen my mom's obit in the paper and came to pay her respects. I don't even recall her name.
After wandering around the room, looking at the photos, she finally made her way to me (and had to ask to double check that I was, in fact, my mom's daughter.) 
Her first question to me was, "So, what happened?" 
I replied, "Leukemia." 
Her response: "Wasn't there anything they could do? I'm sure you could've done something."
This person who didn't know our family and didn't know our situation had an opinion that she felt was necessary to share with me in my grief.
What I really wanted to do was ask her if she seriously thought that we hadn't "done something" over the previous 7 years Mom had battled the disease. That when we'd first received the diagnosis we'd said, "Well, Mom, it's been a good 43 years, but we just don't feel like doing this. So, see ya." 
But I'm pretty sure what really happened was that I just stared at her and didn't say a word. 
And yes, after my initial irritation, I shook it off, because...well, see above: She didn't know our family and didn't know our situation. But it obviously still bothered me. And clearly, (because I'm writing about it 7 years later), to this day, I find it bothersome.
And this was just one insensitive, thoughtless, judgmental comment. But if multiplied exponentially? I can't imagine what it must feel like to be inundated with the opinions of countless thousands of strangers - who know nothing about me, my life, my situation - during the darkest hours of my grief or terror. These people didn't wittingly put themselves in the public light. They were living their personal lives: a day at the zoo, an evening at a concert, a night out dancing, a day at Disney World, etc. No one asked for my opinion. But now there is much suffering and grief...and that suffering has been grossly proliferated at the hands of thoughtless, unnecessary commentary. 
I'm hoping we (I) can just remember the cardinal rule we learned on our first days of kindergarten, "Be nice to each other." 
For the most part, we're all just doing the very best we know to do. And personally, I know that I want to strive to be better.

You grew up when I blinked....

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Fri, 03 Jun 2016 13:17:00 +0000

Dear Kayla,

Today you turn 12. As, I write this, I feel so many emotions: joy, pride, amusement, nostalgia (it’s almost like I’m 12 again…so many emotions in one person at the same time. Ha!) I think that’s how I can sum up “12” best – so many emotions in one person at the same time.

I’ll start with the joy. You like yourself. A lot. You understand yourself – more than I did at 12. You enjoy being introverted. That makes me very happy because truly liking yourself will save you so much heartache. Don’t get me wrong – you can throw some serious attitude with the best of them and there do exist periodic outbursts of random tears, but for the most part you’re not angsty or dramatic. For that, I shout “hallelujah.”

As for the pride I feel, you are doing the things you love to do and excelling at them. And it’s not for the awards and the accolades (although those exist), it’s for the sheer love of what you do. I remember at your age, I would intentionally excel at things simply because my mom said it would make her proud. You don’t do that. You do what you do because you want to. I’m not proud of what you do. I’m proud of who you are.

And yes, your sense of humor makes me laugh. It’s quirky and nerdy and subtle and self-deprecating – all of my favorite humor elements. You like to make me laugh. You know exactly what will make me laugh. And that makes me feel special.

Nostalgia is complicated and bittersweet. I went through the birthday letters I’ve written you over the years. The reading of my words brought back wonderful memories and some tough ones, too. I read things I love about you. And I read things I hate about myself.

Nostalgia reminds me that we are barreling through time at an alarming rate and there’s not a thing I can do to stop it. This year, you’re 12. I vividly remember turning 12 even though I’m turning 40 this year. People keep telling me that 40 is just a number – that I’m still young. What I’m struggling with about turning 40 is this whole nostalgia thing and how it slams my face into the reality of how quickly this life passes us by. I think about when my mom turned 40 and how she had no idea that was the beginning of the last decade of her life. Did I relish every moment of that decade?

A decade sounds like a long time to you, I’m sure. Your entire life is just a couple years more than a decade, so of course a decade is long - it's a lifetime. And it’s just under a decade that my mom's been gone. She never got to see what a remarkable young lady you’ve become. And you barely remember her and only base your memories on stories we’ve told you. That’s the bitter part of nostalgia.

I want more than anything to create the sweet parts of nostalgia with you. I want to relish our time together before life sweeps you up in the complex and glorious chaos of being a teenager. And I know we will enjoy that time as well despite what the haters claim.

You’re a remarkable person, Bean. Never forget that.

Love,
Mom

You and your annual straight hair that will probably be curly again by the end of the school day.

That one time I overcame my fear of the Internet...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Thu, 02 Jun 2016 16:00:00 +0000

"The Lord is my light and my salvation - whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life - of whom shall I be afraid?"

Psalm 27:1

I recently had a real-life, in-person, face-to-face, talking-with-my-mouth conversation with someone I'm getting to know (I didn't say "friend" because I'm not sure she yet considers me one - that's such an introvert thing! Why can't I just bring myself to use the word "friend" a little more gratuitously? Ugh! Introversion is hard!). This person follows me on social media. She asked if I write. Then she said that she likes the way I come across on social media and if I do, in fact, write that she'd like to read some of my stuff. So, I told her that I write on a blog.

But then I began fumbling over my words because I realized I'd only written on my blog once in 2015. I tried to explain to her why I stopped and basically admitted that it was out of fear.

Fear. The realization shocked me because I'm not a fearful person. I very rarely feel anxiety and I don't "freak out" over things. In fact, I could probably benefit from worrying a little more, according to my husband.

As I talked, I became angry because fear - this thief, this liar - had robbed me of one of the biggest joys of my life.

For me, writing is very personal - almost therapeutic - since I have significant trouble processing out loud. Feelings, emotions, thoughts and words flow much easier from the end of my pen or the tips of my fingers as the keyboard clicks. When you see my words on a page or a screen, know that they have been very carefully analyzed, selected and composed. (I often project this onto other writers as well - so I get very "impassioned" when words are either plagiarized or not accredited to the author.)

When I write and post my work to the World Wide Web, I put myself in a very uncomfortable and vulnerable place as writing is also my artistic outlet. Did you read that Facebook post, 140 character Tweet or Instagram caption of mine? Yeah. It was probably written, edited and rewritten at least five times before it was "perfect." And even then, the perfection falls so far short for the artist.

A few years ago, I walked through a bit of mess of my own making that shriveled me up a little. Have you ever seen a spider carcass with its legs all pulled in under its body? That's kind of how I felt. Or maybe more like how a scared pill bug rolls in on itself. I hurt someone I love. And coming back from that was difficult. My feelings were numb and raw at the same time. I didn't want to offer them to anyone.

And then right about the same time, the Internet got really, really mean and the spider carcass crumpled up some more. The pill bug rolled tighter.

So, in 2014 and 2015, I retreated from writing on my blog; I retreated from my art. Internet, I was afraid that you wouldn't like the part of me that I showed you and that you'd say horribly mean things about my thoughts and words right there in the comments section of my art - the same way you say horribly, mean things about all the other the people who look differently than you, believe differently than you, vote differently than you, live differently than you, act differently than you and parent their children differently than you.

So, I hung out on social media and remained innocuous and funny. But even then, little barbs pierced my 140 characters or less. And that made me even more afraid.

When I did write for other sites I contribute to, I balled up in anxiety and I obsessed over the "inevitable backlash" that never came.

This particular piece of art is me unrolling my little pill bug existence and overcoming the fear. And, wow! The sensation of writing - choosing the right words, linking them together to form the sentences that accurately capture my emotions - that feels so much better than the fear.

Will I get upset if you say mean things about my art? Maybe, a little. But I don't care. Writing makes me feel alive, unfettered, purposeful. It's a gift given to me by the Lord and that knowledge far outweighs the momentary sting of a troll's jab. I refuse to live in fear ever again.

So, to the friend who asked me if I write: Yes, I do. And thank you for reminding me.

A Day We'll Never Forget Memorialized in a Vacation We'll Never Forget

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Fri, 11 Sep 2015 11:57:00 +0000

Our vacation of a lifetime contained destinations that are part of a “bucket list” of sorts that we have for our children. Years ago, we had discussed various places we wanted to take them at certain ages.

New York City – specifically Manhattan – is on that list. The age criteria was such that they had to be old enough to “hold their own” as we navigated on foot through the bustling crowd but not old enough to want to move out of the house and take up residence there. Eleven and nearly eight seemed like reasonable ages to fulfill both criteria.

We stayed on Madison Ave. a few blocks away from The Empire State Building.

A hop-on/hop-off tour on a Double Decker bus enabled us to see all the highlights of Downtown Manhattan: Central Park, Times Square, Greenwich Village, Battery Park/Statue of Liberty, Rockefeller Center and many more.

It was my second time in Manhattan. When I’m in that city, I just want to stand in the middle of the street with my arms out, my face to the sky and spin around in circles like I’m in a musical. (Of course, I don’t. Because….well...I just don’t). There’s something about the sights, sounds and smells that make you feel hugely alive and very small at the same time. It’s a wonderfully, confusing sensation.

Our tour also allowed us to stop for a two and a half hour visit at the 9/11 Memorial and Museum at the World Trade Center.

I am barely able to put into words the poignancy of this memorial and museum. Made up of artifacts, video footage, sound bites, photographs and more, it’s an emotionally riveting multimedia journey chronologically through the events of that day that changed the lives of nearly every American it touched. My oldest daughter wasn’t born until 2004, so, to my children, the events of that day are merely pages in their history books or stories that we recount of “where we were when the first tower was hit.”

But the day we toured that museum, I think something in them changed. They saw our tears and the tears of the other patrons, the somber attitude as no one smiled for the pictures that were being snapped, the gravity of the words imprinted on the walls.

I watched my oldest daughter read one particular quotation in the room documenting the actions of those individuals who were forced with the tragic decision to jump to their own deaths rather than be burned and crushed by the collapsing of the towers. I tear up even now, as I reread it:

“She had a business suit on, her hair all askew. This woman stood there for what seemed like minutes and then she held down her skirt and jumped off the ledge. I thought, how human, how modest, to hold down her skirt before she jumped. I couldn't look anymore.”

I can’t get that out of my head. I could tell that quotation shook Kayla. We talked about it later. She said, “The whole museum does this…but what that person said about that lady holding her skirt when she jumped. Those were real people. Not just words in a book. I can’t believe that actually happened.”

That’s the odd thing about life. The farther removed we are from events, that’s all they become – events. The emotion, the humanity tends to gets blurry. We forget to remember. The importance of this memorial is just that: Remember. Feel. Honor.

And of course, your trip to the city isn’t complete if you haven’t been yelled at or honked at by a New Yorker. Aaron got honked at for bad driving (those of you who have driven with him know I speak truth). I got yelled at for taking too long to cross the street (I was probably twirling in the intersection with my arms out and my face to the sky. Or not.)

Most of our meals were “relatively” cheap (nothing in New York is cheap): breakfast made by an angry short order cook at a deli, lunch at an authentic New York Pizza joint owned by an angry man, and hot dogs off of a cart where an angry man haggled with the vendor over the price of a hot dog. (So much anger over food!) Our big food splurge was at Rockefeller Center for dinner. Our server was not angry, although he seemed a little annoyed when I asked for more water.

And of course I had to make sure my girls got "I (Heart) NY" Hoodies. So we stopped in one of the many tacky souvenir shops along the street.

Karis also really wanted to buy a little crystal Empire State Building knick knack with her own money. The shop owner was a little nervous as she browsed. (If you know my girl, you know she’s kind of a vibrating ball of energy so his nervousness was warranted). He eyed her cautiously as she perused. He reached his limit as she, while browsing the shelves, absentmindedly but skillfully tossed one small, breakable item into the air with one hand and deftly caught it without looking. The shop owner snatched it from her and said, “I’ll take that.” Ah, Karis.

We left New York City with full hearts and began the nearly 10 hour drive back home. Our vacation was truly an adventure we won’t forget.

My words are insufficient…and this is kind of braggy…but not about me…but about YOU!

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Wed, 10 Dec 2014 16:47:00 +0000

The internet floats around a lot of articles about how hard it is to be the pastor's wife and how isolating and lonely it can be. And 10 Things Not To Say to the Pastor's Kid. And 20 Things You Never Knew About the Pastor...

Sometimes, I am so sad when I hear pastors recount "horror stories" about events and people they have experienced and encountered in their ministry years. I have a hard time relating. Don't get me wrong - it can be emotionally draining. It's not always easy and fun and there have been significant bumps and bruises in the 16 years we've been in pastoral ministry. But those pale in comparison to the rest.

Aaron and I have the honor and humbling privilege of serving as pastors of the most amazing people in the Metro Detroit area (at the very least... and quite possibly the world). We get to share in the deepest, most intimate times of peoples' lives as we walk beside them on their spiritual journeys in this corporeal world.

I know those sound like professional and perhaps even rehearsed trite words.

But when it comes to these people, the English language fails me. So, I'll share some stories. Hopefully you can get an idea of how loved I feel by these folks. These are the true stories of the ways people of Freedom Christian have made me feel loved and appreciated in simply this last calendar year… (the bulk of the 16 years of stories could fill volumes)…

Let me begin with a person I will call "A."

Shortly after my mother passed away, "A" reached out to me with a gift that could never have a monetary value placed on it. My mother and "A" were friends - sewing buddies. "A" knew that my mother frequently sewed special items for me and for my daughters (who were very young when their grandmother passed away.)

"A" offered to each year sew something special for my girls…something that my mother would have made them. Together we chose to go the route of matching Christmas Pajamas. I am crying as I type this because the love and care with which she crafts these gifts is so evident - from the beginning stages of taking my girls measurements a month in advance (because she realized early on that I was useless when it came to that…she would never be so cruel to say so, but I know the truth - after the first year I took their measurements and relayed them to her at which time she kindly said, "I'll bring my tape measure next week and just double check. I want to make sure they'll fit." ha ha!), to the little "extra gift" (a hand embroidered pillow with their names, matching PJs for their American Girl dolls, a little toiletry bag) that she places in the gift box or bag.

And just last night, an unattended Christmas gift bag sat on my kitchen table. "What's this?" I asked as I began to pull out the tissue paper. "Wait!" Aaron tried to stop me…but then gave up because he was too excited to prevent me from seeing what it was. Another handcrafted gift from "A" to me. This picture doesn't fully capture the loving details: the vintage book with the yellowed pages that was carefully selected from a secondhand bookstore - "The Great Quotations" beautiful words spoken by influential people of years gone by (she knows I love words); the obvious hours it took to painstakingly fold the pages into the (CORRECT!) spelling of my name; the antiquing technique performed on the folded pages to make the name pop to life. It's probably one of the coolest and most unique gifts I've ever received:

And then there's "L."

Last summer my husband was out of town for several long stretches of time (conferences and missions trips). Between working outside of the home, shuttling to and from childcare providers, doing the normal church stuff (plus extra because it was our annual community serve week), my girls were subsisting on a diet of butter cheese noodles and canned green beans.

One day, out of the blue, "L" texted me to inform me that she'd be bringing dinner to us that evening. Several hours later we ate like kings. Bowls of delicious homemade chicken noodle soup and dishes of gourmet gelato satiated our appetites. But what touched me were the kindness of the words she had written in the card: "We know that Pastor Aaron is out of town this week and how crazy it can be to manage things…so we just wanted to make things a little easier for you…"

Wow. "Thoughtful" isn't even close to what that was.

Back in March, our church hosted the statewide Women In Ministry Retreat. I had a team of women from Freedom who totally killed it by bending over backward to make that retreat the most amazing thing ever. At the end of the weekend, I had pastor's wives approach me in tears telling me how blessed I was to have a group of women who would take time out of their schedules to serve a group of pastor's wives that they didn't even know. They were in tears because they don't experience that in their churches. You ladies rocked!

And guess what I'm doing today in approximately a half hour after probably the craziest 6 months of my life (I feel like I say that every 6 months…I guess it just keeps getting crazier)? An anonymous note showed up in my mailbox this week:

The people who do those things aren't trying to get in good with me or trying be our favorites…in fact when they read this they'll probably be slightly annoyed that I did this…

I could go on and on with countless stories about how people pray for me when I'm sick…or offer encouragement when I'm going through hard times…or just sit and talk to me about life…or deliver the perfect gift to me each Christmas Eve…or send me private messages of stupid memes that they know will amuse me…or send me anonymous cards using the word "skullduggery" because they know I'll think that's funny...or buy me TARDIS Christmas ornaments for my tree…or randomly deliver Sweetwater Donuts to my door...or babysit my kids for free…or take my kids shopping on their birthdays…or overhear that my clothes dryer was on the fritz years ago and bless me in an unimaginable way…or gather a group of guys together to help move us into a new house…or overwhelm us with love and support beyond our wildest dreams as we welcomed our first child into the world after 5 years and a not so easy road…or giving me the room and the grace to grieve…

And so today, people of Freedom Christian, I brag about you.

Church people are awesome. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.

No longer the mom of "littles"...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Sat, 01 Nov 2014 18:26:00 +0000

Dear Karis,

Today at 9:00 a.m., you turned seven.

Seven.

There's something about that age. Five and six still seemed so little. But "SEVEN." That feels like a "big kid" number.

So, today, my life as a mom of young children has ended. I have big kids.

And can I tell you how much I love this?! I am so much less physically exhausted. Granted, the sass and argument logic has intensified and I tend to be a bit more emotionally drained. But the glory of older elementary school aged children is unsurpassed.

Anyway, I just want to let you know that I think you are one of the most spectacular people I have ever had the pleasure of loving. You are so much like your dad that it's unreal. You love people and feel life more deeply than the average person. That's what I love the most about you and your father.

There's not a moment of the day from which you're not squeezing every bit of life. From playing Legos in your room while listening to music (belting those tunes out with your whole heart - you sing and dance like no one's watching) to giving it your all on the baseball diamond, soccer field and at running club (you play so hard that you've already hyperextended your knee twice).

I know I say this all the time, but you are one of the two funniest people I know (the other one being your dad). Half the time you know it and the other half you have no clue. And that makes it even more hilarious.

And I have to admit, that I was really nervous about first grade. I thought you were going to struggle mightily. Because, like your dad, you're "people and relationship smart," but school and sitting still to read and do work has always been difficult. But I must say, that I super-impressed with how hard you're rockin' it this year in Ms. Rossi's class. It delights me to no end when you sit down and read a book to me because I know how hard you worked for that.

Boo Boo (sorry, I know you're seven now, but I will always call you that), I am so proud of the young lady you are becoming and am so happy to able to say that you're my daughter. Not a day goes by that I don't want to gather you onto my lap and inhale deeply the smell of your hair just like I've done every day since you were born.

Happy Birthday! I love you more than you'll ever know.

Love,
Mommy

Introverts: Unite! Separately. In your own houses.

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Thu, 16 Oct 2014 00:28:00 +0000

I feel like the following conversation between Karis and me perfectly illustrates the primary difference between introverts and extroverts.

K: Mom, I saw you talking to M------'s mom at school today. Are you guys friends?

J: Well...not really.

K: You were talking to her. Do you not like her?

J: Yeah, I like her well enough but I wouldn't consider us friends.

K: But if you like someone enough to talk to them then you're friends.

J: Well, we're more of acquaintances.

K: What does that mean?!?!

J: We know each other by name and well enough to chit chat while waiting for you guys to get out of school.

K: So..."acquaintances" means you're friends.

J: Not really. We just know each other.

K: Mom. You're friends with her. You're friends with lots of people. I see you talk to people all the time.

J: So, you think I am friends with everyone I talk to?

K: (big exasperated sigh and eye roll) Well, yeah! Of course!

Bingo.

There you have it.

Extroverts love being friends with everyone. Introverts are a bit more stingy with their friendship.

Double Digits

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Tue, 03 Jun 2014 15:00:00 +0000

Dear Kayla,

Today at 10:45 p.m., you will be a decade old. That shatters my mind a little bit, because I'm pretty sure when I close my eyes, you're this chubby-cheeked, little, blue eyed 4 year old with the big ringlet curls that made us call you Princess Genevieve.

Then I open them. And there you stand, up to my shoulders. Long and lean. Soft and delicate. Beautiful but not knowing it. Not like a child, but a young lady.

This year, I have enjoyed watching you grow in several areas. First, you're learning that sometimes you have to work really hard for things. A few times those things have been school-related (you seemed to think that memorizing multiplication and division facts was a pointless endeavor - until you learned to add/subtract fractions this year. That was a rough stretch. But you made it through). And a few times those things have been social. You've navigated a few friendship bumps successfully! I am so proud of you for that.

You're also the nosiest person I've every met. Ha! It's fascinating! You could probably make a great private investigator someday. I am astonished at the details and nuances that you pick up from every conversation you've been a part of or eavesdropped on. (You're pretty proud of you eavesdropping skills). You're observant and intuitive. And sometimes, that's difficult for you because you only pick up parts of conversations out of context. You tend to mull over details you've filled in and it makes you worry and feel anxious.

But you're learning to navigate that as well. You're a lot like me when it comes to swallowing down your emotions. But you're also learning how to manage that - at a MUCH earlier age than I began learning (I still struggle with this.) I love your quirky sense of humor. It's a lot like mine...you'll find that not everyone gets or appreciates that type of humor, but those who do get it will be deeply endeared to you.

What thrills me the most is the terrific core group of friends you're cultivating relationships with at church. They are really good girls. Drama free. Fun. Jesus loving. I pray that these become lifelong friendships. Your dad has friends like these, and they were a huge part of keeping him walking with The Lord for the duration of his life.

These 10 years of your life have been an amazing journey filled with highs, lows and everything in between. I love you more than I did when you first came into the world wide-eyed with wonder. Never lose that sense of wonder.

I love you more than you'll ever know.

XO,

Mom

Kindergarten is awesome...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Wed, 14 May 2014 16:58:00 +0000

This was way too good not to share and yet way too many characters for any social media outlets.

Today I volunteered in Kindergarten again for the second time this week. We're painting handprints on the shirts they will wear for the field trip to Upland Hills Farm next week.

It. Was. Amazing.

First little anecdote:

The kids are learning about the life cycle of a butterfly. So they watched a little video. The teacher had a picture of a butterfly up on the Smart Board afterward and would point to a part on the insect. The kids would then call out what body part she was pointing to.

Ms. F: And what's this part called...

Class: (silence...)

Some random kid: The LORAX!!!!

Ms. F: Close...it's called the thorax.

Second little anecdote:

I had been helping a student paint her hand in the hallway for about ten minutes when my favorite little boy in the class was escorted back by the principal. The principal called the teacher into the hallway, instructed the boy to apologize and tell the lesson he learned.

Later, it was the boy's turn to paint his hand with me.

B: Mrs. Hlavin, have you ever been to the principal's office?

Me: No...I haven't. But Karis's dad was in the principal's office a lot when he was in school.

B: Did he learn to make good choices after that?

Me: (trying not to laugh) Yes...he did.

B: Well, that's good because it would be kind of weird if as a grown up he got sent to his boss's office.

Me: Yeah, especially since he's kind of the boss of where he works.

B: That would be even weirder if he got sent to his own office for not making good choices.

I highly recommend volunteering in Kindergarten if at all possible.

Star Wars...wonderful Star Wars...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Tue, 21 Jan 2014 14:48:00 +0000

I am a Gen Xer. I was born the year before Star Wars: A New Hope was released (notice how I refuse to refer to it as Episode IV?); a bicentennial baby.

And as a Gen Xer, I like Star Wars. A lot. My text tone is Chewbacca’s roar. My ringtone for when my husband calls is Lando Calrissian’s voice saying “Hello…what have we here?” (ya know…the scene where he meets Princess Leia for the first time?)

The year that my family got cable TV (that’s what we called it back then “cable TV” – always had to say both), Star Wars: A New Hope seemed to be on 24 hour rotation on HBO. We watched it a countless number of times.

When I was in first grade, in 1982, I played “Star Wars” on the playground at recess with a boy I had a crush on. He was Luke. I was Leia. This was a few years before the startling revelation that they were actually brother and sister. (I remember coming back to school after the summer that Return of the Jedi was released and struggling to make eye contact with him.)

My parents took us to see both The Empire Strikes Back (although, I covered my eyes through the entire movie beginning with the scene where Han Solo slices open the Tauntaun to save Luke’s life) and Return of the Jedi when they opened at movie theaters. We had all the action figures and play sets. And my brother was Chewbacca for Halloween one year.

When my husband and I got married in June of 1999, Star Wars: The Phantom Menace had just been released. So, on our honeymoon, we ventured out to one evening to go see that steaming pile.

Then we obligatorily saw each subsequent movie going forward: Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith.

Well, last summer, we decided it was time for our children to be welcomed into George Lucas’ galaxy. Of course, we had to watch them “chronologically” from Phantom to Jedi because we know our youngest child and trying to explain it to her would probably make her head explode.

Now my kids love Star Wars. And I’m so happy about that. Truly.

Until I ask them who is their favorite character.

Xers, I’m sure you know before I even utter the syllables:

Jar Jar Binks.

Jar Jar Binks?! Jar Jar stinkin’ Binks???

And my precious kindergartner? She does an awesome Yoda impression. But in the next breath, she does an awesome Jar Jar impression. And by “awesome,” I mean spot-on awful; skin crawling, like his big, stupid, floppy ears and duck face are in the room with me.

Ugh.

My Generation X heart breaks. I have failed as a parent. I have no Star Wars cred whatsoever.

The look on Luke's face perfectly encapsulates how I feel about this:

When tragic world news hits very close to home...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Wed, 11 Dec 2013 15:20:00 +0000

I’m sure by now you’ve heard or read about this...

And you may have even seen this amazing "History of Redemption...

As many are preparing to pay respects to his memory this coming weekend, my hope for this blog post is to add to the voices speaking out about him and to give additional honor to this ordinary yet remarkable man who exhibited the greatest love: “to lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13.

It is with great sadness...and still a distant sense of disbelief...that I share my account.

One of my first memories of Ronnie is lodged somewhere in my mind around Spring/Summer of 1997. (That was the darkest, most rebellious, undredeemed time of my life.) I arrived home from a long morning of classes at Wayne State University to find my brother Jason and Ronnie sitting at the kitchen table in the middle of an enormous pile of miscellaneous food items from Taco Bell.

“Can I have one of these?” I asked, famished from a long morning of studies, as I grabbed a burrito and began to unwrap it.

“No!” my brother snapped. “This stuff is ours!”

“You’re kidding, right?” I said in disbelief. “You have a mountain of food here and it’s just you two idiots. You’re not going to eat it all!”

“Yes we are! You can’t have it! Now give it back!!”

In a fit of sisterly rage, I hurled the burrito at my brother. It landed with a loud splat on the half-eaten Mexican pizza on the table in front of him.

From that point on, any time I started to lose my cool – and Ronnie was in the vicinity – he’d say, “What’re you gonna do? Throw a burrito?”

That was the Ronnie I knew. He was sarcastic and quick-witted. And treated me with just as much ungrateful snottiness as my own kid brother did.

But my story with Ronnie doesn’t end with one burrito flung in a fit of anger.

As that year began to wind down and the autumn leaves began to fall, I was involved in a car accident. That wreck got my attention and I began to evaluate where my life was headed, the poor decisions I had spent the past three years making – was continuing to make – and what I wanted my future to look like.

I was part of a group that travelled out of state that weekend in my friend’s Honda Civic to visit another friend away at school. Her car was totaled in the early morning hours of one of those days. None of us were injured. But for me, some deep soul searching began. That following Wednesday – November 12^th, 1997 – I decided to set foot into church again for the first time in who-knows-how-long.

Jason had left early to attend worship practice. My parents weren’t home. It was just me and my “trusty” 1994 Dodge Neon. Of course, the car wouldn’t start. So much for my plans of going to church that night!

Then the phone rang.

It was Ronnie.

“Jason already left for church,” I told him.

“I know,” he replied. “I’m calling for you. Do you need a ride to church? I feel like God wants me to drive you tonight.”

He picked me up. We drove to church.

I made the best decision of my life that night. I dedicated my life to serving Christ. And I’ve never looked back.

Ronnie continued to be a part my life on a regular basis for the years to come – integrally entwined in the fabric of my family – my brother’s best friend, my brother-in-law’s best friend, lifelong friend of my sister-in-law. We watched him grow up and develop into leadership roles in our church. We watched him graduate from college and get married to the lovely Anita.

In the mid-2000s he and Anita moved to Texas. He kept in touch with the family regarding the incredible things he was involved in.

A couple of years ago, he moved to Egypt – and eventually Libya -- to answer the clear direction of the Lord – to reach those who don’t know Christ. Just as he had done so obediently for me a decade earlier.

About a month ago, I shared the details of that Wednesday in 1997 with my husband for the very first time for no reason other than it came to my mind. It seemed like an insignificant detail of my “salvation story.”

And then Thursday, December 5, 2013 brought devastating news of “an American teacher murdered in Benghazi.” Just another news story to so many people. The reports said he was a “chemistry teacher at an international school.” But we knew he was so much more. He was a missionary. And now a martyr.

His life has touched and changed so many others. And while his death hurts and grieves each and every one of those who loved him, we know that he heard the words “Well done, good and faithful servant” (Matthew 25:21) from the One he loved, obeyed and followed.

Until we meet again...

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Mon, 04 Nov 2013 23:47:00 +0000

As I sit here hashing out the details of an event with the same name, I feel it's time to do my annual post of A Few of My Favorite Things! Who cares if it's only four days after Halloween? Radio stations are already playing Christmas music so why can't I kick off the season?

I will begin with the least expensive of my discoveries of 2013: Maybelline's The Falsies mascara. I have been struggling for years to find something that will consistently make my sparse eyelashes somewhat visible and appealing. Thank you Maybelline! I now look like a supermodel for under $10!

If you know me in real life, you know I have curly hair. Heck, if you know me via the internet, you know I have curly hair because I complain incessantly about it. Well, Suave has helped me finally find an inexpensive way to manage the 'fro. Keratin infused products are the way to go!

I am fully aware of the fact that I totally got sucked in by the marketing on this one. But I love Windex Touch Up. I love it for my girls' bathroom. I just leave it on their counter for them to easily clean up their messes with a tissue and a few pumps of this. I also love the fact that my husband mistook it for hand soap and then proceeded to complained about the awful soap I bought.

Two words: Garden. Ridge. I am in love with this store for so many reasons: seasonal decor, throw pillows, rugs, baskets, pictures, tables...the list could go on infinitely. Having moved into a new home within the past year and a half, this store has been my go to for most of our decor.

I'll combine a few for this section: My Teavana custom blend (Peach Bellini Blush and White Ayurvedic Chai) within Mr. Tea steeping in my Pier 1 mug. Look how happy I look! Need I say more?

And for the most expensive item on my list of my favorite things of 2013, my new Allure Transitional Shades for my doorwall. These shades are an awesome combination of roller shades and horizontal blinds. They are super cute and super easy to keep clean! These are actual pictures of my doorwall.

I pray that as the Holiday Season kicks off you make time for the things that truly matter! Be blessed and enjoy!

My baby turned 6 yesterday...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Sat, 02 Nov 2013 20:17:00 +0000

Dear Karis,

Again, I am a day late with your birthday letter. Planning a C-section for the day after Halloween may have been a lack of foresight on my part. But it was either that or bring a 400 lb. baby into the world if I waited for you to arrive on your own. You were a very big girl.

Today, as we were driving back from lunch, your sister and I were discussing the difference between homonyms, homophones, homographs and heteronyms. After the conversation had gone on for some time, and your father was clearly annoyed, you declared, "I don't care about any of this because you're not talkin' about me! I'm just trying make this hat (a free firefighter's hat you received at the restaurant) into a rapper hat!" to which your dad was absolutely thrilled.

That pretty much sums you up. No matter what is going on around you, the beat of your own drum directs your footsteps. We love that about you.

You've been 6 for a day now and I'm still having a hard time believing it. As I sit here and contemplate this last year of your life, I can't help but be impressed with your positivity, zest for life and ability to ride out the storms with a smile and a belly laugh.

You started kindergarten this year -- a year later than you "should" have. But each and every day I am more convinced that this was the best parenting decision we've made for you thus far. It makes me so happy to see how proud you are of the things you are accomplishing. I am watching you learn to read, and even more amazingly (probably because it's always been a subject I've struggled with), I'm watching your math skills start to develop and unfold so easily for you.

You are a wellspring of deep emotion that always keeps us on our toes. We never wonder what you are thinking with opinions that are strong. There is a depth to your tenacity. And you possess a gift for making those you love feel like a million bucks -- a trait you inherited from your daddy.

Happy Birthday, Boo Boo. You make my heart smile.

XO

Love,
Mommy

The last page of my journal...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Wed, 28 Aug 2013 14:24:00 +0000

Recently, several of my friends have lost parents. My heart hurts for them. So this is a topic that is heavy on my heart and mind, as my husband is officiating the funeral for one today.

It's been nearly five years since I lost my mom and I have been under the delusion that I got this grief thing pretty well under control now.

~~Right.~~

Wrong.

My biggest piece of advice to those who've lost a parent: You eventually get to a sense of "normalcy" where the emotions aren't always raw and right up in your face. But "the sad" will sneak up on you randomly and often at the most unexpected times. So just feel it and be okay with the sadness for that time.

I'm keenly aware of the "expected" times when they invade my normalcy:

The beginning of Spring - the time when she'd plant her garden, one of her favorite pastimes
My birthday - simply because I'm a selfish brat and I miss her spoiling me. :)
Back to School - we'd go shopping but more poignantly, it's a sharp reminder of another big chapter of my daughters' lives that she isn't a part of.
Thanksgiving - she was an amazing cook and her feast surpassed all others.
Christmas - again because it's a sharp reminder of family holiday festivities that my kids are not experiencing. These holidays are very different without her around.

However, there are times that assault me and it usually takes me a few minutes to figure out what hit me.

Today, for example, I sat down to write in my journal realizing that I was at the last few pages. I thought to myself, "I need to go get a new journal out of my stash." And then I sadly realized that this particular journal was the last of my "stash."

My mother was the provider of my hoard. Each holiday, or just because, she'd buy me a new journal. I haven't purchased one for myself in years - and definitely haven't had to do so in the past four years.

Until now.

And I'm sad. And I'm okay with that for the time.

So, to all my friends who are just beginning their grief journey or are weeks/months/years/decades into the journey, know that you have my empathy. My heart aches for you.

When will teleportation be a viable option for commuting from point A to point B?

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Wed, 31 Jul 2013 19:02:00 +0000

That's it. I've reached my boiling point. I've mentioned my annoyance with this particular topic on various social media outlets in the past using only 140 characters or less. But today is the day where I fully lay it out all there.

What is this "it" to which I am referring? It's the growing problem of minivanism and the extent to which I am a victim on a daily basis.

Minivanism: when individuals act on the preconceived (and generally false) assumption that everyone driving a minivan is either a) driving 15 miles under the posted speed limit and/or b) somehow violating your sense of humanity. This mindset is most likely a result of the fact that a large amount of minivan drivers historically have been pretty annoying.

Before I launch into my tirade (and, yes, it is a tirade -- not just a "vent" or a "rant" but a full fledged tirade), let me begin by saying:

1) Note that in my definition of minivanism, I conceded that there have been annoying minivan drivers that flood the highways.
2) Being a minivan driver has pros and cons:

Pros

I can haul a LOT of stuff. Shopping trips are unreal. I can hit up multiple stores and never have to return home to make room. I can go to IKEA and buy 3 dressers, 2 end tables, a TV stand and various sundry items and not bat an eye (true story).
My children get an entire bench to themselves and therefore do not kill each other. They are far enough away from me that I can just turn up my tunes and veg out. I am never forced to drive off an embankment from the fighting and crying. It's awesome.
It has a huge back window which I can emblazon with all kinds of cool decals. Like this one that's currently on my van:

And this one that I really want:

Or this one, that I actually have but I can't put on my van because my husband, The Reverend, thinks it's inappropriate for the pastor's wife to insult a portion of the congregation who have stick figure families on their vans by putting this anti-stick figure family decal on her vehicle:

Cons

When I purchased the van, a part of my soul died.
I am subjected to extreme minivanism on a nearly daily basis.

For example, today I turned right out of a parking lot with no less than a quarter of a mile space between myself and the pick up truck that was stopped at the light south of where I turned. The light changed, and he flew up behind me so fast (I was driving the speed limit by this time - which was 50 and to be honest, I was probably doing 55 or more) and proceeded to tailgate me directly into a mob of traffic. There was nowhere either of us could go. There was no reason for his behavior.

So, I let him know. By firmly and suddenly braking. (Note: My children were not in the vehicle with me. I never do that with them in the car. When they are in the car, I lead the offender quickly between two cars going the same speed and then slow down to that same speed so that El Tailgater is trapped. Muuuaaahhhaaahhaahhhaa!!!!)

Similar types of things occur all. the. time. But not when I'm driving my husband's car. Hmmmm....peculiar.

Whether its tailgating, passing me (which always involves cutting me off and then not going any faster than I was already driving) or, my personal favorite, refusing to allow me to pass you, it always seems to be one of two groups of people:

1. Men of varying ages
2. Teenage/twentysomething women

It's never 30+ year old women.

Humor me, if you will, while I share my theories.

Here is why I think men of varying ages tend to act like that when sharing the road with a minivan:
Testosterone-fueled insanity. Plain and simple. I guess the idea of being passed by some mom in a van is more than they can bear. So they lose their mind and end up actin' a fool. (Please note this is not all men. Just the ones who think it's awesome to smoke a minivan at the light.)

And here is my theory as to why the young lady constituency tend to act this way: Its a subconscious revolt against the inevitable future. I probably did the same thing before I got my sweet ride. Go ahead and say it: "I'll never drive a minivan." And I'll just smile condescendingly and file that away with all of your "My child will never..." comments to be pulled out at a later date. (Sister, I kid a little on this one because I still have a handful of "my child will never" comments to which I'm still clinging desperately).

Has this blog post been uncharacteristically offensive? Yes. Yes it has.

But with that said, please note that I can't wait for the day I can retire my vehicular beast and rejoin the ranks of non-minivan drivers. I will dance in the streets. I was dragged into this lifestyle kicking and screaming (unlike my mother, God rest her soul, who bought a van when my brother and I were teenagers and again AFTER WE MOVED OUT OF THE HOUSE!!! Who does that??).

And if I see someone disrespecting minivan drivers, I'll tailgate him/her in my brand new, candy apple red convertible Mustang. (A girl can dream, right?)

Thankful I had youth ministry to help me prep for this stuff....

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 14:42:00 +0000

Dear Kayla,

Nine years ago today, as I was in the early stages of labor, we anxiously awaited your arrival.

Nine years. That sounds like such a long time. But when I can close my eyes, I see it like it is happening right now.

Then I open them and there you stand - nearly to my shoulders with your freshly straightened hair (you begged me to straighten your hair for school today because all your friends are dying to see what it looks like straightened and figured your birthday would be the perfect day to do so) - looking nothing like that perfect little baby I met on June 3, 2004.

You are a beautiful young lady.

While we're enjoying the benefits of becoming a 'tween, we're also learning that growing up can be hard. Friends had told me that there was a big difference between 2nd and 3rd grade. My assumption was that the difference would have to do with academics.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

You're still pulling straight A's, have been on the honor roll every card marking, and were chosen to participate in the UCS School Board meeting several months ago (which I'm told only the brightest and best are chosen for that honor.) Good job, baby!

But approximately a year ago, our lives sustained some significant changes:

Our church underwent some huge staff transitions (as a Pastor's Kid, that was a major shift for you because our staff has always been "family." Some of your "family" moved out of state while other members of the "family" moved to new chapters in their lives meaning that friendships would have to be more intentional).
We built and moved to a new home.
You spent a week away from us at camp for the first time.
We enrolled you in a new school

Along the road, we encountered some bumps that we had to navigate. You've had to grieve the loss of easy friendships and learn how to manage those outside of the confines you'd been used to. You've had to learn how to manage fear of the unknown and the anxiety that sometimes accompanies said fear.

And you've had to learn that oftentimes, other peoples' lives look a lot different than ours. You've struggled with feeling left out and naive - different. You've had to come home from school and ask us what certain things meant and why you didn't know about those things. You're learning that the world outside of these four walls isn't alway a nice place and sometimes little girls can be mean and hurtful.

With strong "encouragement" from your father, I've had to learn how to not overreact when you tell me something you've heard at school. ("That boy said WHAT word?!?!"). I've had to be educated on the finer points of keeping my big mouth shut, especially after reading that very unkind text message on your iPod from that one girl at school ("Give me her phone number. I'm calling her mother. What kind of woman raises a daughter to behave like this????!!!!!") Responses like those I've parenthetically notated make you not want to confide in me.

I'm realizing that I can't just swoop in and fix everything. A call to a parent or the teacher may help temporarily change someone else's behavior but it isn't going to help you learn what you need to do in said situations.

We're all learning how to navigate this together. And sometimes we trip. And sometimes we fall. But then we all get back up and start the journey again - together.

Just when I think I've made a huge mistake by "allowing" you to grow up and releasing you to the wolves and I am seconds away from building a bunker in the basement and homeschooling you so that we never have to interact with another human being again, I see how happy you are with all of your friends at your first big Sleepover Party.

Nice girls. Happy girls. Kind girls. Generous girls. Being raised by nice, happy, kind, generous mothers. My faith in our gender is restored. :)

And I realize that hiding you away from everything that is wrong with the world isn't going to help you. It's going to harm you because you won't have learned the appropriate tools to navigate the inevitably difficult situations of life.

I am so proud of you, Kayla. I hope you know that. And not because you get good grades or because you follow the rules, but because you love people, you feel life at a very deep level and you truly want to believe the best about every person and situation you encounter.

I've said it once. I've said it a million times. I want to be like you when I grow up. :)

Happy Birthday!

With more love than you could ever imagine,
Mom

She's happy, free, confused and lonely at the same time...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 14:13:00 +0000

It is my experience that each phase of parenthood brings a specific "sacrifice." I use the word "sacrifice" for lack of a better word - I find that "sacrifice" smacks of martyrdom.

Selflessness. There's a better word.

When they were babies, that little piece of selflessness was sleep. But that comes back...for a while at least. I can sleep in on Saturdays again because my kids sleep through the night (for the most part) and are old enough to not destroy the house from the hours of 7 a.m. to 9 a.m.! Glorious! From what I understand that goes away when they are teenagers and stay out past our bedtimes.

As toddlers, that piece of selflessness is being able to have nice stuff around your house. I really took for granted setting a lit candle on a coffee table.

And so on and so forth. I'm sure you could add countless items to this list.

I am the mother of two daughters ages 5 and nearly 9 (in a little under 2 months). My current stage of selflessness involves music. I was recently informed by my eldest that Mumford & Sons' "Winter Winds" needs to come out of rotation because the lyrics upset her:

We'll be washed and buried one day my girl

And the time we were given will be left for the world

The flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by plague

So let the memories be good for those who stay...

I, personally, am moved by that verse, but I can see how it can be slightly unnerving for an almost 9 year old. So, Aaron created a "driving mix" for the ladies.

Now, each day Taylor Swift belts out her bubblegum from the speakers of my minivan (as if the word "minivan" in this sentence wasn't uncool enough) on the way to school.

However, I must admit, that some excellent and blogworthy conversations have come as a result of such.

This morning, while waiting in the drive thru at Tim Horton's, Ms. Swift informed us that:

It feels like a perfect night

To dress up like hipsters...

To which Karis declared, "I love this song. It reminds me of Grammy and Papa."

Happy to be distracted by conversation so that I didn't run screaming into oncoming traffic due to the fact that this was the third time I had heard this song already this morning ("Play it again, Mom!"), I said,

"Why is that, baby?"

"Well, because Grammy and Papa used to be hipsters."

"Hippies, Karis. Grammy and Papa used to be hippies."

"Oh yeah. Dat's right."

Thank you, to my children, for making every second of selflessness more than worth it.

Happy Monday...

Ah...to be five....

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 16:02:00 +0000

Today, Karis was "Special Helper" at preschool.

In the preschool world, "Special Helper" is just a fancy term for the kid whose parent has to shell out cash to feed 20 children a wholesome, peanut-free, gluten free, lactose-free, sugar-free snack that each and every child will enjoy. (I am kidding...a little bit...)

And then the kid gets to "help" by waiting on the rest of the class hand-and-foot with special "jobs" created just for the Special Helper (i.e. pouring each child their juice, cleaning up after snack, etc.)

Oh, yeah. They also get to bring in a little something for Show & Tell. The child is instructed to hide his or her item in a bag with a piece of paper attached detailing three clues about the item inside.

Last night, we began preparing for her big day. The discussion about which toy she wanted to bring lasted for quite some time, per usual.

(Isn't she the cutest?)

In her first go around as Special Helper, she chose Buzz Lightyear. Understandably so because this guy is awesome. His wings pop out. His laser makes cool sounds. And he talks.

Right after Christmas, she was Special Helper again. She chose her interactive Hallmark dog, Jingle. It responds to various lines in a particular book that you read to it. Very cute.

So this time (yes, this is the THIRD time we've been chosen for this privilege), I began down the list. Maybe her Fijit Friend?

Nope.

Or her Nintendo DS?

Nope.

(As I'm writing this, I realize this entire pictorial post is making my child look spoiled rotten. So I'd like to disclaim. Every gift, except the Nintendo DS, was given to her by a grandparent for a birthday or Christmas. The DS was her big Christmas gift last year from us.)

Finally, of her own volition, she chose the plastic Ninjas she purchased with her Bible Bucks at FreedomKids Sky Mall yesterday.

And the three hints she came up with all on her own?

1. They fight bad guys.

2. They are sneaky.

3. They wear masks.

Way to go, FreedomKids! Your SkyMall items are show-and-tell-worthy in this household! Just thought Pastor Larry would like to know.

Weird Confession Wednesday: Diggin' the Didg

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 14:56:00 +0000

In 1996, I developed an affinity toward the sound of the didgeridoo after first hearing one played in a song by pop folksinger, Dar Williams.

The didgeridoo is instrument created by the indigenous Australian peoples. For a quick glimpse at the sound and technique, check this out:

But I didn't know that at the time. I just thought it sounded really cool.

Since those were the days before you could find anything you ever imagined on the internet, I was determined to learn more about this instrument. So, I casually mentioned this to a woman I worked with. (Kay was a former hippie who knew a little bit about everything...she had been so many places and done so many things that I figured she'd know at least something about the didgeridoo).

Incidentally, she happened to have a CD, by a band called Dr. Didg, in her car. Who knew?

I borrowed the CD and loved the didgeridoo even more.

The following summer, at The Renaissance Festival, I encountered a vendor selling didgeridoos. The vendor allowed me to try my hand at the instrument.

Needless to say, I was not as good as the guy in the video above.

Redeemed...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 17:09:00 +0000

REDEMPTION [ri-demp-shuh n]
noun

1. an act of redeeming or atoning for a fault or mistake, or the state of being redeemed.
2. deliverance; rescue.
3. Theology. deliverance from sin; salvation.
4. atonement for guilt.
5 repurchase, as of something sold

_____________________________________________

Once upon a time, I made a huge, ugly mess of my life. Despite the fact that I was raised in a Christian home. And then Jesus rescued me.

That was many years ago, and I could be easily tempted to lose sight of or forget the price He paid.

For as many things that I've gotten wrong along this Christian journey of mine, the one thing I've gotten right is how in touch I am with this unfathomable act of redemption. I am almost daily moved to tears when I think of His sacrifice - the sinless One atoning for my immense guilt and becoming my unspeakable sin so that I could be delivered.

"In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God's grace that he lavished on us."

Ephesians 1:7-8

I just finished a book called Redeemed: Embracing A Transformed Life. In it, Kerry Clarensau details strategies for redeeming five areas of our lives.

But it all begins with embracing the Redeemer. We do this by:

1. Drinking in His Grace

2. Receiving the Fullness of His Love

3. Allowing His Word to Shape Our Thoughts, Attitudes and Behaviors

4. Being Aware of His Presence Every Moment

This is probably the second best book I've read on the subject (the Bible being the first). I encourage you to get your hands on a copy today! (I borrowed a copy from a friend, but ordered my own online because I want to read, reread and scribble copious notes in the margin and didn't think she'd appreciate that in her copy!)

Be blessed today! And never lose sight of your redemption!

And while I'm waiting for the book to arrive at my front door, I'll just listen to this on repeat:

A lot of pots on the burners...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 20:43:00 +0000

I have about 5 posts partially written. It's just a matter of fine tuning and completing.

Stay tuned...

Weird Confession Wednesday: I'm All Shook Up...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 17:33:00 +0000

I was born August 11, 1976.

Elvis Presley died August 16, 1977. You do the math.

And yet, for some reason, during my formative years, I became an enormous fan of the King of Rock and Roll.

The following trivia, I rattle off from memory. Cross my heart:

Elvis Aron (or with two "A's," either way is correct.) was born January 8, 1935 to Vernon and Gladys Presley in Tupelo, Mississippi. His twin brother, Jesse Garon was stillborn. He served in the military. His manager's name was Colonel Tom Parker.

And I could go on. But I'll spare you.

My bedroom did not look like the typical 15 year old living in 1992. It was a flashback to 1956 complete with black and white matted pictures of Elvis (a huge poster of the picture at the top of this post adorned my wall) and all other types of trinkets and tchotchkes. Upon my graduation from high school, my parents presented me with three Elvis dolls, like the ones pictured below.
(My actual dolls were sold on eBay several years ago.)

But I'm over all that now in case any of this disturbed you in some way...

Of Macaulay Culkin and my mom...

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 22:10:00 +0000

I patronize Tim Horton's several times a week. My beverage of choice always comes to $1.59. I generally pay the fee with a one dollar bill, two quarters and a dime.

Now hang with me.

Do you remember the scene in Home Alone where Kevin (Macaulay Culkin) is watching a black-and- white film called Angels with Filthy Souls? And the character takes out another character with a machine gun while laughing maniacally? If you do, then I'm sure you remember what the character says at the end of the clip.

My mother was notorious for quoting (mostly MISquoting) random, stupid lines from movies. This Home Alone quote was among her most oft recited.

Each and every time I pay for my medium coffee at Tim Horton's and I'm asked if I want the penny back from my monetary transaction, I politely decline. And then I roll the window up and say with a sneer,

"Keep the change, ya filthy animal."

And I smile because I like to think that I just made her laugh.

2...4...6...8...The general public is just so GREAT!

noreply@blogger.com (Jaime) — Sat, 09 Feb 2013 14:51:00 +0000

Friday nights are "out-to-eat" nights in our house. It was my turn to choose. I chose Don Pablo's.

Also, I work outside the home on Fridays, so I leave the house before 7 a.m. and don't have the luxury of seeing what my daughters' clothing and hair looks like for the day. (This has been a real point of personal growth for me. The control freak has had to loosen her grip slightly. But only ever so slightly since I sent my husband a text yesterday that read, "If you're going to let the girls play outside only let them go in the back yard because I like for the snow to look pretty in the front - with no footprints.")

**Also, for those of you wondering what kind of sweet gig my husband works in order to have Fridays off, he's a pastor. He works on Sundays and usually portions of Saturday so Friday is his "day off." We have very firm boundaries in place to safeguard our family time since the nature of his work rarely conforms to the normal 8 a.m. - 6 p.m. work day. But don't get me started. :) **

And I've digressed, yet again.

Anyway, the second paragraph is important because, quite honestly, yesterday I felt like the girls looked like homeless cheerleaders. But in an effort to not be a control freak and to save them hundreds of dollars on future therapy about how their mother would never let them pick out their own clothes or do their own hair for the duration of their childhood and teenage years, I let it go. And out to dinner Aaron and I went with our two homeless cheerleaders.

We enjoyed a typical Hlavin meal: Loud and full of unsolicited conversations with strangers (one topic of conversation with a stranger involved Aaron talking about how therapeutic it would be to make tortillas for one 8 hour shift.)

Apparently one of my 5 year old's loud and adorably lispy conversations caught the attention of one particular stranger.

Suddenly, an unfamiliar man's voice was speaking directly over my shoulder and into my ear so closely that I could feel his breath on my face - and the look on my husband's face was one of amusement and fear (for the man's life, of course, for so grossly violating my standards of personal space).

"I'm assuming these two girls are your daughters...." The Voice began quietly.

I turned toward The Voice which was coming from The Face of a 60ish year old gentleman. And it was literally only 5 inches from my own. Startled, I immediately put a few more inches between us, to which he immediately made up the difference and continued, "They are BEAUTIFUL."

"Oh. Well. Thank you very much." I think I was cheerful.

And he walked away.

Aaron and I met shocked and amused glances as the man walked away.

My oldest said, "What was that all about?"

Aaron's reply was golden, "Do you girls realize how beautiful you are? So, much so that strange men whisper it into your mother's ear at uncomfortably close range."

"...even when you look like homeless cheerleaders," my brain said to itself.

Typical night out.