a long way from the Theta house

Fantasy vs. Reality

2012-01-17T23:30:00.004-06:00

This is one of the funniest things I've seen recently.

I totally get it. I've always been a little gangly and a lot awkward.
I joke that I was never a cheerleader and there is good reason. I
would have hurt someone with my flailing arms and poor stabilizer
muscles.

And, yet, the problem with people like me is that no matter how much
we talk about our failings, somewhere, deep down, we still believe
we're capable real fabulousness. Like the kind you see in magazines -
that's totally airbrushed and mostly computer generated.

Let me give you an example from my day...

There's not a whole lot to say about my hair. It's brown. With layers.
And the early dustings of grey. I blow it dry, and about 85% of the
time, I put it in a ponyta...I'm sorry, excuse me. I must have dozed
off out of boredom.

So, this morning - perhaps inspired by Martin Luther King in a
completely different and superficial way that he never ever intended
and would most likely be mortified by - I had a dream of good hair.

And I had just the tools and extra time to do it.

In rare form, I spent a good 20 minutes curling individual locks of
hair around a curling iron in an effort to get that loose, messy, I-just-woke-up-but-my-hair-just-happens-to-be-all-wavy-and-spectacular look
that's in every magazine right now.

I may have watched an instructional video on YouTube.

Then, just as I was finishing up the coif, the school called. Tee was
sick and needed to come home.

Now, bouncing out the door, despite the fact that neither my hair color or age had changed, I was absolutely certain I looked like this...

When I walked in the office, I was instantly reminded I probably
looked a little more like this...

My sweet 7th grader took one look at me, eyes got huge, and he turned
bright red. He actually buried his face in his hands. As we're
leaving, and I'm chatting it up with a friend, he's literally combing
his fingers through my hair trying to straighten it.

I laughed so hard I almost cried.

So, like Kenny Rogers, I searched deep within my soul for the ace that I could keep from this highly fascinating story. Here it is, my friends...

If your 7th grader has enough self-awareness to be embarrassed, and
enough energy and manual dexterity to try and straighten your hair with his fingers, he's
probably feeling well enough to stick it out through Latin.

Your only take away may be Shareese.

2012-01-06T22:22:00.002-06:00

It's totally funny to me how much of a habit blogging became for me and then, like exercise, once I stopped for a little while, my brain - like my thighs - became strangely out of shape and blubbery.

I don't really know if my brain is literally blubbery but when I opened up this page and saw that the last time I posted was Thanksgiving, I'm imagining it is not in tip-top-writing shape. It may have cellulite.

So, in the very cliche act of starting all things new this January, I hope to both exercise and write a little more than I have lately.

I was talking with a friend today about the blog, and writing, and all that goes with it and, admittedly, it's a strange world. I love getting to know friends in the community - readers and bloggers both - but there would be times I would sit across from my closest friends here and they would say, "Amy Acquaintance (that's not really a person's name. Do you see what I did there?) asked me if I knew about something you'd written on your blog and I didn't have a clue." It became incredibly easy for me to write on here some of the things that were going on instead of sitting down face to face with a close friend - someone who knows the good and the bad and can speak into my life at close range. Sometimes, I discovered, writing it all down is cathartic. Sometimes, for me honestly, it's just easier - less personal.

And so, I hope to find that ever-elusive balance. To keep up with the incredible people I've met through this blog who I don't get to actually put my eyes on and, at the same time loving my friends and family with intention.

Which may also mean I need to log off Pinterest.

To catch up...

December was a blur of festive crazy. Dea was home and some yahoo planned three events in four nights at our house. Clearly, I am a scheduling idiot.

One of the events was the Annual Mercy Street Christmas Party. It was once again a blast and we're just thankful no blood or tears were shed this year during the white elephant gift exchange. We haven't always been able to make that claim.

We did introduce the element of a dance competition which I rocked. Or Trey begged me to sit down. Either one. You choose.

We loved being with family and without homework and watching movies together and eating chocolate covered everything which was either given to us by friends who hate me or made by me after a Pinterest bender. And now we're back to the need for exercise.

And with everything else going on, a Christmas card just wasn't in the cards this year... Wow. Yeah. Sorry for that....even though my sweet photographer friend Shareese Rowland got us all to smile at the same time. She's amazing - look her up.

Thanksgiving week miscellany. And J.R.

2011-11-22T23:31:00.004-06:00

One of my favorite things about Thanksgiving break is that, despite all the Christmas trees going up and red bows slowly covering everything in sight, really, there's just food and family to enjoy. The kids are home, practices are cancelled, Trey's got some vacation, and we're just loving circling the wagons and spending some sweet, sweet time together.

With football.

And queso.

Mercy Street held it's annual Community Potluck on Saturday afternoon complete with a covered dish bonanza and the highly anticipated pie contest.

The pie to beat was last year's champion, the Banana Caramel Cream which, was made by someone with some serious culinary talent.

Serious.

Ahem.

Anyway, Sadie was undaunted and whipped together a little homemade Apple Pie with caramel drizzled over the top.

You probably can't tell from the photo but she was kinda proud. And wouldn't you know it, she won first place!

Now, I know what the skeptics out there are saying - sure she won, look how stinkin' cute she is and all. But, I'm here to tell you, it's totally anonymous with real judges and who don't know who baked what. Totally legit, people!

Now, on another more somber note, I need to tell you, I almost died yesterday. I really want to say this without sounding totally over-the-top. It'll be hard for me...here goes...

I was almost killed by unkindness. And sass. And, people, this news is going to shock you. SHOCK.

I was driving down the road which I drive down about, oh, seven days a week, when another car came into my lane and rubbed against mine. Now, before you start getting all worked-up-like, jumping out of your seat and picking up a pitchfork to chase down the offender, everyone was fine. Actually, I drive a fairly old Suburban and I had just a little scratch but, of course, you gotta pull over because it's the law and all.

And, it was in the actual pulling over that all my troubles began. First, the gentleman driving the car seemed to think it was my fault even though it clearly wasn't and Graham was sitting next to me and watched the guy come into my lane and hit me. But, it gets worse. Oh, so much worse.

He called me "Lady" twice. And not in the nice 18th Century aristocracy way but more in the, you're an idiot and I'm going to demean you with my words way.

Then, he called me "Honey". With a sneer.

Now, there is one person who calls me Honey and it's certainly not him. And, I'm pretty sure my husband doesn't say it with a sneer. It may be said with some frustration from time to time because I'm running late or forgot to wash his favorite shirt but, never with the condescension that was rolling off this man's tongue.

I'm not proud but, instead of worrying about the condition of his soul, I was simply more curious about what his momma might say if she heard him speak to someone like that.

It was when the police came, though, that the other shoe dropped. The officer explained that no, this man indeed, wasn't from around these parts.

Duh.

He was from the west coast and was in town driving for (insert giddy policeman giggle) Larry Hagman who had been sitting in the passenger seat the whole time.

"You know, J.R. EWING?"

Seriously?

May I say at this point that I did not have my full cute on yesterday. Not even close. It was bad. I was coming home from dropping off a friend of Graham's. I barely had on shoes. Why do I think I can leave the house without at least some mascara and gloss? WHY?

Even still, a little part of my bubble burst. Although I was only seven when Dallas premiered and my parents wouldn't let me watch it because of the smut, I KNOW J.R. And, surely, the J.R. Ewing that I know and loved would have seen his driver acting all out of sorts, sauntered confidently around the front of his (barely damaged) car in a polyester suit and cowboy boots, and said something clever about oil and handshakes, and "let's just let the insurance companies duke this one out". Then he would have winked at me.

Instead he sat quietly in the car - probably updating his Facebook status with questions like, 'where can I get the best street tacos in Dallas', while I had to deal with his driver who was all rude and kept calling me "Lady" and saying it was my fault when it wasn't.

Totally wasn't.

And I could have told him where to get the best tacos so really, I got the last laugh.

Did I mention Sadie baked a pie? How 'bout we leave it on that sweet note.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Who are these people?

2011-10-27T10:10:00.005-05:00

Thank you all for your sweet comments and emails about my last post on my grandad. They were much appreciated.

Although our trip was mostly somber, my children are children and they tend to egg one another on toward any and all ridiculousness. Driving past acre upon acre of cornfields and tall, tall grass on our way home inspired them and we were forced to pull over.

Sadie didn't wasn't quite as committed as the other two in hiding and then surprising the enemy. Odds are, I'm the only one laughing right now which I'm totally not insecure about. Actually, it happens a lot.

Their ridiculousness only continued this week when, after an outing with their father, two of them walked creepily into the house dressed like this. Then they ran around the front yard until the neighbors called the police.

They didn't really call the police. I added that for drama.

Y'all have a great weekend!

Grandpa.

2011-10-19T08:57:00.006-05:00

Over Labor Day, I loaded the kids up in the suburban and headed due north to Nebraska to visit my grandparents.

I had spent every summer and holiday with them growing up but it had been way too long since we'd visited. The kids loved spending time with them - playing cards, eating ice cream, and comparing wrinkled, well-used hands to hands that have yet to see really hard work, or endure much suffering, or hold the newborn or the dying.

Last Tuesday night, just five short weeks from when we had seen them last, my dad called late to tell me my grandaddy had died. He was 91 and had lived more life that I even know about. He was a child of the Great Depression, a young man of World War II, a father to two, and a husband to one for 67 years.

For more time than a lot of people live, my grandparents walked through life together. He was a hand-holder and I remember him taking my grandmother's hand and sitting on the back porch while my brother and I played in their backyard on summer evenings.

A few months ago, some friends and I were talking about marriage and hard seasons. Not just difficult days, or annoyances, but stone cold months and years which threaten to crush a covenant that promises perseverance through the good, the bad, the sick, the healthy, the rich, and the poor. A wise older woman had shared that those seasons are, of course, inevitable. But, in light of sharing the good part of a century with someone, even a few bad years pale in comparison to all the true and the beautiful and the redemptive.

Those were the things my grandmother was holding onto as we buried my grandaddy on Monday in a cemetery in Hastings. They had grown up and grown old together. They had children together, celebrated grandchildren together, and kissed great-grand children together. They had run, and slowed, and eventually bent over walkers together. All bound by the vows symbolized in the rings that no longer fit their fingers.

The crisp flag that draped his casket was ceremonially folded and presented to his bride in thanks of his service to his country, 21 guns saluted him, and roses were laid one by one in the heart-heavy goodbye's of his family and friends. And one of the last to leave, his partner for life gently patted the casket, said her last 'I love you', and then whispered, "Goodbye, good buddy."

Because he had been.

This may explain a lot.

2011-09-13T10:40:00.010-05:00

With carpool, lunches, breakfasts, snacks that look like dinners, and dinner, coupled with soccer, football, volleyball, and serving as the president of the PTF this year at my children's school, my fall has been a little busier than usual.

I have found myself with both perpetual bad hair and puffy eyes which together go a long way in endearing your children to you - especially in front of their friends.

"No, seriously Mom, you're welcome to just WAIT IN THE CAR."

Also, when I don't take time to write down the things I think are funny, I have a tendency to over-tell those funny stories to my children which they LOVE. They love if the definition of love is to run away.

A while back I commented to Trey about how perplexed I was that my friend Gini is able to handle lots of activity, responsibility, and obstacles at once all the while maintaining poise and good hair. My husband responded with a gentle hand on my shoulder and some encouraging words. "You know, baby, some people are just able to get more done in a day than others. It's how they're wired."

Awesome. Sometimes, I wish my wiring had more wires and stuff. And frankly, I'd like someone to blame.

So, when my dad sent me a bunch of pictures the other day of his visit to see my stinky brother, I couldn't help but single one photo out. It was of my brother's giant and very well organized desk. I was not surprised. He is one of those people, like my friend, who can juggle mountains and still maintain composure.

I happened to open this photo while sitting at my own desk and when I looked up, I was appalled. I may have gagged. For sure if my brother sees it, he will gag.

However, in this comparison, I found relief. Although I cannot change how I am wired, I can, now, obviously blame my parents. Clearly, they loved him more.

At least enough to teach him the value of a right angle.

But, if you look really closely (because I did - sometimes I think I'm an investigative journalist), he's misspelled a word in the second paragraph on the document in the lower left hand corner of the picture. It's easily spotted because it's the one that's ever-so-slightly askew on his otherwise perfect desk.

Sucka.

Remembering 9/11

2011-09-11T16:33:00.003-05:00

I have been incredibly neglectful of my blog lately. Mostly because I'm trying not to be incredibly neglectful of my husband or my children or my other responsibilities.

But, this afternoon, I needed to brush off the cobwebs of this little site to write down some of the things I remember from that morning when the twin towers fell ten years ago.

Three months pregnant with Graham, I was nauseous trying to cook Tee (2) and Olivia (7 months) breakfast and get out the door. (For the record; it's sex. Sex is how you get babies and I did know that then, I swear.)

I was tired and needing the little break that their Mother's Day Out would provide me if I could just get them out the door and into the car in 45 minutes. I perpetually late.

The phone rang and a friend told me to turn on the news - that a commuter plane -had hit the World Trade Center. That was the earliest speculation, that a random commuter plane had made a horrible error and crashed into the middle of New York's skyline.

As smoke billowed out of the buildings, we continued to change diapers, tie shoes, and grab jackets. Dallas was beautiful that morning but there was a little chill of Fall in the air. Just as we went to walk out the door, we saw a plane hit the other tower and I called my dad.

As a consultant, he flies an extraordinary amount and I wanted to make sure he wasn't in the air that morning. Thankfully, he was home and, being two hours behind, hadn't even turned on the news yet. We talked off and on the rest of the day.

As we walked into bible study, reports that the first tower had fallen came in and the speculations about the potential number of lives lost was staggering. Our study was actually a systematic theology class taught by my friend Paige Benton Brown. She was young but incredibly wise and she spoke with great wisdom and grace on the sovereignty of our most Holy God who, even in the midst of great catastrophes, works in them and through them for his divine purposes. And we prayed. We prayed for the victims, the wounded, the families, the children, for the city of New York, and for President Bush who would bear the burden of comforting a nation.

My friend and I cancelled a trip we'd had planned for months for that upcoming weekend to New York and as news continued to come in that day and in the coming weeks, we were rarely out of ear-shot of a television. I cried a lot. Having buried my mother two years before almost to the day, I was still raw with the emotion of losing a parent. My heart ached for every child that lost their mom or dad that day. I remember later hearing about the impact the attacks had on small burroughs who had lost so many men that they found themselves without any coaches, church deacons, or volunteer fire fighters. We saw the culture of our country change. Terrorism became a word used in almost every conversation. We talked to my brother almost daily. As a member of the U.S. Special Forces, we knew he would be deployed - and we wondered how soon.

The culture of our country was changing as security tightened, suspicions arose, and investigations were constantly taking place even here in Dallas.

Now, ten years later, those little babies I took to Mothers' Day Out are products of a post 9/11 America. When we fly, we don't even question taking off our shoes or being asked two or three times for the same identification. They've learned more about the Muslim culture than I ever imagined they would and are very familiar with some of the distinctions that make up the Middle East. They've seen their uncle go and thankfully come home from war three times. And they've been told the stories of that day when heroes ran into those buildings that were on the verge of collapse in order to save the lives of people who might never even know their names.

My hope for my children that don't remember every detail of that day is that they will learn the stories from those of us who do. And, just as I, over those few weeks was so thankful to be living in the United States, I pray they will always know how blessed they are to live in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

It doesn't always end well.

2011-08-21T19:28:00.002-05:00

If you've followed my blog for any amount of time, you'd know we've had two boys living with us for almost four years. Unless, of course, you've only been reading my blog for a few months and in that case, you've been iill-informed on the goings on in my house and in West Dallas and frankly, probably bored.

I blame the heat. The heat and the extreme lack of anything funny to write about.

Except for the day I sprayed my entire body with self-tanner only to find out I had used leave-in conditioner instead. Smooth. No, really, my skin was smooth.

Anyway. Dea and Darius have become a part of our family to the extent they could when they actually have a mom and dad living 20 minutes away. It's been great and hard and confusing and frustrating all at the same time. We learned a long time ago that our job wasn't to replace their parents but at the same time, we had to act like their parents when they were living under our roof.

The Lord has provided for all of us in every imaginable way.

A couple weeks ago, Darius moved out of our house. It was an impossibly hard decision for us to make but we felt - because of the decisions he was making - he had left us with no other choice.

We've wrestled with all the questions...was it the right thing to do? Would we ever make that decision with our own kids? What does loving someone well really look like? Does, as Tim Keller has been quoted often saying, mercy really limit mercy?

It has absolutely been one of the hardest things we've experienced as a family. Dea stayed but of course, our kids have had all kinds of questions about Darius. Sadie was only three when the boys moved in and she really doesn't remember both boys not being part of our family. Graham was five, Olivia six, and Tee eight.

Although we've tried to explain all that went into the decision - and most of it, they were aware of - they've still been left feeling a little empty.

This weekend has been particularly difficult. We had talked all summer about it. Dea and Darius would both move into their places at UTA and UNT and we would be right there to help. Instead, we moved Dea into his apartment yesterday and he was ready. At lunch, he told me he wasn't nervous at all. That he knew he was going to make it and was excited about all the girls he would meet, I mean, things he would learn. Darius, on the other hand, dropped by this morning picked up the rest of his things and headed off to UNT. And when he left, I cried.

For years, I thought this day would end another way - with pictures, and making beds and parking tickets. Instead, he left to go meet up with his friend and move in on his own. I'm learning, still, that things don't always end like we think they will. That just when you think you're finishing the race, the course can change and your largest hurdle can actually come in the homestretch.

So, tonight when I ran to the grocery store for dinner the difference was immediately evident. A package of six rolls was enough for our family again and the two dozen eggs I was used to buying seemed like way too many. We have some readjusting to do here at the Hill house and, at least for a while, it's going to sound really quiet and smell a little less like teenage boys.

Our prayer for Dea and Darius is that they will learn to love and follow the most faithful Lord who has cared for them and protected them all these years and who promises to never forsake those who trust in Him.

Possibilities.

2011-08-08T08:21:00.002-05:00

So.

Trey and I had a great week while the kids were at camp. We made a deal, he wouldn't make me cook and I would go to Six Flags and ride the new Texas Giant and the Titan with him. Sometimes, we make sacrifices so that we don't have to stand in front of an oven when its consistently 106 outside.

Earlier in the afternoon of our Six Flags visit, I had enjoyed a glass of wine and some guacamole with a friend. I remembered the guacamole just as we were cresting the first drop of the Titan. I found solace in the fact that I hadn't actually had to make the guacamole that might be making a second appearance.

We were thrilled to have our kids home but definitely enjoyed some time by ourselves. We were able to look across the table from each other often and much and remember what we loved about each other, what a complete thought actually sounds like, and why we do what we do. Maybe more what Trey does and sometimes, I get to be a part.

Admittedly, Trey is really the one in full time ministry here. The things he deals with on a daily basis floor me. When he comes home at night, sometimes, the weight of what he's seen, heard, and experienced really is written all over his face.

And sometimes, the weight of the homemade doughnuts I made "for the children" but managed to eat seven is written on my thighs.

Ahem.

Please. I'm trying to be serious.

The last night before the kids came home - Friday night - Trey and I were on day 6 of "Kids are all at camp. What are we gonna do tonight?" when he threw a curve ball.

There were a handful of people gathering at Mercy Street to pray. We had a little girl - she's 13 - who was pregnant and had scheduled an abortion for 8:00 Saturday morning. Actually, someone had scheduled it for her. But, between fear of that person and fear of losing the life she knew - be it tragic on so many fronts - she was going to be in that waiting room in the morning.

Y'all, I don't get to sit in on a lot of these kinds of spontaneous prayer gatherings because they happen during the workday, or when I'm driving carpool, or when I'm doing the dishes, or if I'm perfectly honest, when I feel like my plate is so full at home that I don't even try.

The weight of what we were praying for was heavy - would the Lord please intervene, please rescue, please change the course of this little girl's life overnight - because one more death of a child wouldn't fix the mess of broken pieces both surrounding her and clattering around in her own heart.

This little girl's mentor and her husband were there. They had called. They've walked with this child for years and now found themselves neck-deep in a trial they hoped would never come and at the same time suspected was inevitable because children in the inner-city grow up too fast. And their mettle was being tested - their promise of "faithfulness to this child" had to slip on flesh and blood in a bad circumstance.

There were no rose colored glasses in this group. They have long since come off. Instead, there was great faith and great heartbreak and great wisdom and in my corner, I'm sad to say, little hope.

Although I've read all summer about Israel and it's lack of faith over and over again in a Lord who parts seas, thwarts nations, and saves children, I doubted. And most recently reading the story of Esther - He worked in the smallest details and through a little orphan girl - to save a nation. But, could He right this?

Why would he right this?

Because He loves her ferociously.`

And He did. That little girl woke up Saturday morning and decided to carry her baby to term within the love and care of a home out-of-town that exists to build into her hope and worth and possibility.

Our continued prayer is that she'll place this baby with adoptive parents and that her entire family, along with all our families, will see and believe the power of redemption.

And my continued prayer is as I get to work alongside Trey in our community, I'll have more opportunities to witness great faith bowing not to impossible circumstances but instead before the One who says, "Be still and know I am God."

Bruno, now I get it!

2011-07-25T16:06:00.006-05:00

You know, all summer, my kids have listened to that song by Bruno Mars. I think it's called the Lazy Song but I'm really not sure because I'm usually trying to argue the benefits/attributes/pros of country music through the whole song.

There's a part where they turn it off every time for about 16 beats because it's 'inappropriate'. I will say, their self-parenting skills have gotten exceptionally better this summer. High five for me.

Actually, I have listened to the lyrics a few times - minus the 16 beats - and it's pretty catchy. Catchy, that is, until I envision myself actually doing nothing and then CPS showing up and taking my family away. Clearly, I'm motivated a itsy-bitsy bit by fear. Itsy-bitsy. Those of you who know me personally can stop cackling now. I can hear you.

Anyway, this week, I'm actually considering sitting around not doing anything because...you guessed it...even if you didn't just play along...all my kids are at PINE COVE!

There really are no better words to utter after that sentence than, "Thank you, Jesus." It's true.

From my last post, you could probably surmise that I was getting a little edgy. It's been a good 102 every day for a month and we're a fair skinned bunch. We'd spent just about every day at the pool for some period of time and my dermatologist was starting to send me hateful text messages and harass me on Facebook.

He wasn't really - but in my mind, it was funny. You see, when all my kids are away at camp, I have all kinds of time to use that shriveled up part of my brain called my I.M.A.G.I.N.A.T.I.O.N.

Tee's actually been gone a week already. We dropped him off last Sunday for a two week gig and he was actually o.k. Perhaps he'd, too, grown weary of my nagging and cajoling to read, clean up his room, and stabilize our house's foundation. I believe in hard work before there's any passing out of the popsicles around here.

Yeah.

Ok, actually it's been a little more like, "Read 3 chapters in your book and don't fight with your sisters and I'll give you a popsicle every hour until dinner."

Honesty counts for something, right?

So for the details...Tee's been gone a week and then, yesterday, we dropped off the other three. Graham and Olivia had friends bunking with them so Sadie who was also going for the first time, was riding solo. She was thrilled about camp until it actually came time for her to actually stay at camp sans parents. She got all nervous and weepy and "I don't want you to leave"-y. Olivia had long said her quick goodbye's and raced to the pool. Graham, who actually had been saying he wasn't sure he wanted to go either, and had hung back with Trey and I, took a deep breath and even though his chin was quivering a tiny bit, said, "Sadie, I've just decided I'm going to have a great time this week and you are too." He put his little arm around her and led her to the gate for their swim test and off we went.

Graham's compassionate spirit and gentle heart made Trey's and my first top-shelf jumbo margarita of the week so much easier to get down.

Bless him.

Then, cleaning out my car this morning from the drive, I found this.

That, my friends, is not a good sign. Although Pine Cove has a camp store and each of the kids has a little spending money in their accounts, I can't, for the life of me imagine that one of my children would actually spend actual American money on a toothbrush when, instead, they could buy a Pine Cove key chain.

For all their none keys.

Goodnight, my sweet pumpkins.

2011-07-14T22:35:00.005-05:00

It's 10:30 on Thursday night and, although I'd love to say I've been sitting here relaxing for a couple of hours in a quiet house because my children are all tucked neatly and sweetly in their beds, I can't. I can't because my oldest - besides the oldest two that are almost in college and stay up till all hours - is 12 and he thinks he should get to stay up late and watch movies, eat a second dinner, and dribble the basketball like he's doing right now. Hang on.

Ok. I threw it over the fence. Was that wrong?

Anyway, because he wants to stay up later, the other fruit of my womb are staying up later, too. And so, this summer, we've said goodby to the days where the kids were in bed by 8 and Trey and I had the whole night to relax, recoup, and unwind with an episode of Lost and a box of Milk Duds.

I don't even remember what Milk Duds taste like anymore. All I can remember is that they were healthy.

Now, I know some of you are murmuring under your breath at your computer screen that I'm a spineless parent with jellyfish limbs and bad hair. And frankly, I'm just insulted that you brought my hair into this. That was low. And also, I can hear you. It's part of the new Blogger updates. Seriously, Google it.

I know, I know we could put them to bed earlier - we are actually not spineless parents who don't have any control over their children's goings-on even though you'd never know it by reading this post - but they are growing up a little and we're just on the cusp of them wanting to stretch their bedtimes but still wanting us to hang out with them, play Life, or capture the flag, or bake an Italian Cream Cake long past the time Momma is needing to shut 'er down. I'm old and tired. They tell me that all day. Why do they stop believing it right around 9:30 when they're unfolding the Twister mat and preheating the oven to 350?

It's certainly a new season of life for us and I've felt unprepared. And tired. And grouchy. GRRRRR.

Oh, my! I just reread this and I sound like the biggest baby/whiner/complainer ever! What is wrong with me? I should be so thankful my children are all home and funny and precious and want to spend, like, upwards of 15 hours a day with me asking questions, and talking, and asking questions, and wanting to eat, and asking questions, and stuff.

And I am. I am thankful. So, incredibly thankful. Thankful.

And I love them madly.

But can they please go to bed?

Nip and Tuck - er.

2011-07-11T21:49:00.005-05:00

One day, maybe one day, I'll learn.

One day, maybe I'll learn that dog grooming is not one of my gifts. In fact, grooming a dog most certainly works outside of my gifting.

Do any of you remember this post? The one where I thought I could groom my dog to look like one that might be a contender in the Westminster Dog Show? FAIL.

I vowed never, no never try to groom my dog again. Like I've told my children for years, cutting hair requires a license. Even if it's dog hair.

I lied to myself, people. Lied. I vowed and then broke my vow. It's the same thing I did last year when I vowed to stop drinking Diet Cokes for a week and then drank Diet Cokes. All week.

This time, though, I thougt was different. Totally, completely different because, although I vowed to never groom my dog again, Olivia's dog doesn't really qualify as a.) mine because, you know, the whole, "it's Olivia's dog" thing and b.) Tucker is so small. So tiny and miniscule, he barely even qualifies as a dog. Really, how hard could it be?

Which brings me to my main reason for wanting to groom him all homemade like. He's like, five pounds soaking wet and do you know what those 'grooming professionals' with their fancy licenses and scissors want to charge me to give him a measly little haircut. Forty-eight American dollars.

Forty-eight.

Well, that's just stupid. I cooked his weight in pasta for dinner last night.

So, all undignified like, I thought we could do this. Right? We're a team, right? YES! YES, WE ARE!

Olivia, Sadie, and I locked ourselves in my bathroom armed with a leash, scissors, and a piece of cheese.

Oh, and Tucker. Tucker was there.

Here's the little buddy's 'before' shot.

I don't have his 'after' shot because, well, that would be just cruel. See, we were humming along great. Hair was falling, cheese was being eaten and Tucker was well on his way to being groomed homestyle.

Then, it happened. It. Happened.

I was snipping and he was squirming and all of a sudden he let out a little yelp.

And his life flashed before him. Along with a piece of his ear which I had unfortunately snipped off along with the hair that was attached.

I know, you're totally grossing out and wishing you hadn't started reading this riveting post.

Sorry.

At least I didn't take a picture of the ear that Olivia put in a ziplock bag in case the vet needed to sew it back on.

Sorry, again.

Anyway, trauma ensued complete with lots of blood and me getting all light-headed and queasy. Kind of like you're feeling right about now, I assume.

So, so, sorry but if I don't document these things somewhere, I will forget them and, like Israel, continue to make the same mistakes over and over and over again.

Just so you'll sleep easy, Tucker is totally fine. Totally. He's been spoiled rotten all night and isn't walking lopsided at all.

He's looking a little lopsided - but walking fine.

And we're considering changing his name to Evander Holyfield. Or Van Gogh.

Or victim.

And for the record. When you make a really big mistake while grooming your dog, saying, "Oh, a myriad of words not meant for family friendly blogs!!!" really does nothing to help the situation but does provide a great distraction. Your innocent children might be so momentarily appalled, they might forget that you almost mortally wounded their dog with scissors while holding a piece of cheese.

Happy Fourth of July!

2011-07-05T09:30:00.004-05:00

Hope you had a great 4th of July!

We celebrated a little bit old school with friends in their backyard.

We had waterslides, burgers, hot dogs, watermelon, and ice cream sundaes...

And shaving cream...

And water balloons...

When my friend Jennifer brought out a can for each child, craziness erupted.

From the smallest child...

To the biggest children...

No one escaped the mayhem. Even if the rules clearly stated the shaving cream was reserved for those under 21 and wearing swimsuits.

Wait a second...how'd these guys get in here?

Oh, have I mentioned we won the NBA Championships? And went to the parade and waited four hours for this?

Totally worth it.

Anyway, we had a great day celebrating our country, our freedom, and all that comes with it.

Especially the right to get revenge on your little brother for getting shaving cream in your eyes, and maybe a little on your cell phone.

Next Phase

2011-07-03T13:02:00.002-05:00

Last week, Trey dropped a group of West Dallas' ten off at the airport as they embarked on a mission trip to Senegal, Africa.

To Trey, it was a pinnacle of the long-dreamed of goal that the kids we serve here would somehow see not only beyond our neighborhood, but beyond our city and country and set their sights on the global community we have in Christ.

As he prayed for them on their departure, he charged the six high school kids and four Mercy Street staff members to embrace their unique call to be Ambassadors for Christ. To set aside their desires, expectations, and assumptions and truly demonstrate the love of Christ to people 1/2 a world away.

We've gotten updates through Mercy Street's high school ministry's blog, Next Phase and have been so encouraged by the things we've read. For us, it's been the little things we've read - sometimes even reading between the lines - that have been the sweetest.

The recognition that bread and jelly for lunch was a delight and a gift for our kids because they'd come to understand the commodity that jelly was to the people they were serving and had come to love.

The wonder our kids felt in seeing the children of Senegal's reaction to the presentation of a brand new soccer ball. Our kids struggle - but the perspective they gained was beautiful.

"We have air-conditioning, running water...and the women endure a grueling process to make coucous. They take the millet gathered from the fields and place it in this large bucket, then vigorously pound away until its ground into powder. We watched in wonder and Sharmonique said, “And we get mad when the microwave takes too long!” Wisdom poured from the students left and right.

This afternoon, Trey has the privilege of welcoming home some young men and women that we pray will truly develop into future leaders for this community, the city, and the world.

Hey, you!

2011-06-20T21:01:00.004-05:00

So, I'm sitting here trying to figure out how to write a post of any reasonable length when I haven't written so long and have so many things to talk about.

Camp was amazing. Partly because, while it was 102 in Dallas, it was snowing in Estes Park. And partly because we got to meet my dad one night in Boulder for a spontaneous dinner. We were all in Colorado at the same time and got to enjoy a light bite at the Cheesecake Factory. It actually wasn't light or just one bite. Seriously.

(Fact: medicinal marijuana is sold all over Boulder. It's true. And that would also help explain the roughly 4000 people that turn out every June for the Naked Bike Race. 4000! You cannot unsee that. This year, in an obvious act of sanity, the city officials outlawed genital nudity which pretty much shut down the event and saved us all from pouring bleach on our eyeballs.)

Meanwhile, back at camp - Wind River Ranch is an amazing place and we felt restored and refreshed both physically and spiritually. You wouldn't have known that had you heard me breathing after climbing a small flight of stairs - but that's not important right now.

The day after we got back, we had the privilege of celebrating Darius' graduation! He's off to the University of North Texas this fall and excited to begin an new chapter of his life.

Dea, too, will leaving with his brother. His acceptance letter to The University of Texas at Arlington came last week and it was high-fives, all around. For the first time in both of their lives, they'll be venturing out without each other and as much as they're not talking about it, I know they're thinking about how different it will be without their brother within arm's length.

At the same time, lots of questions are swirling around in the minds and hearts of the four little ones who've come to call these young men their brothers. "How often will you come visit, Dea?" "If we keep your room the same, will you come spend the night?" "Can we come see you the very first weekend you're gone?"

And tonight, Olivia wondered aloud if other kids will come fill their room - or will it just sit empty, waiting for them to come home. She looked at me with those big blue eyes and asked me to really start praying about it now - because she had been. Then she marked out certain verses for Trey to read about widows and orphans and acceptable religion and set them by his pillow.

These are some uncharted waters for us all and, with just under two months left, I can feel the emotions of it all ebb in and out like waves. The Lord has been incredibly faithful and met us wherever we were for a long, long time. We can't help but look forward with hope to the new future for us all just on the horizon.

A horizon that we are incredibly thankful is not, by His amazing grace, filled with naked bicycle riders.

Summer's finally here!

2011-05-28T17:49:00.004-05:00

I'm sitting in the car, Trey at the wheel, kids bouncing around the backseat (though totally secure in their seatbelts) on our way to family camp in Colorado. It's amazing to me how one of the most patient men in the world can almost pop a vessel at the prospect of getting stuck behind a tractor trailer on a two lane road.

"Drive! DRIVE!"

Perhaps it's the horror of having to read his lame bumper stickers over and over again for the next forty miles.

Perhaps it's the fear of the kids breaking out into another round of "Friday" that makes his blood run cold. I can't blame him. He's only human.

Anyway, we've had a pretty nutty May with Hannah getting married, Trey giving Covenant's commencement address, and the endless end of year parties that required cookies, and gifts, and washed hair. I have pictures but they're still on my camera waiting to be downloaded, organized, and uploaded. They may be waiting a while.

This momma is ready for a long summer break.

We're starting off spending a week with some pretty incredible people who we love but never get to see. Namely, The Kelleys and the Kings from Common Ground in Montgomery, Alabama, and the Wuerfuls and Gordons from Desire Street Ministries in Atlanta and Mobile. We can't wait to hang out and hear what's going on with their ministries. And sleep. We're gonna sleep. Alot.

Then when we come back we'll celebrate as Darius graduates from Pinkston H. S. He's excited but nervous about what's in store for him over the next couple of months. Dea has been an encouragement and a voice of reality for what lies ahead. We've loved watching these boys become young men and look forward to enjoying with them what will most likely be their last summer in our house.

Hoping to post a little more this summer! Thanks for sticking around.

The tears of a clown.

2011-05-04T19:24:00.008-05:00

Sadie gave her last presentation of first grade this afternoon and, although a little late, I actually made it this time. That made my record 1-1 for the season in presentation show-ups for my youngest child.

The children made dioramas of different ecosystems.

Sadie chose the Rainforest ecosystem. Actually, that's not exactly true. Initially, she was assigned Wetlands - an assignment that made her cry so hard in horror and dissappointment that her kind and tender teacher gave her Rainforests instead.

Now, at this point, let me say two things.

1. Reason #234 that I love my husband is that he sincerely enjoys doing projects with the children. He gets all creative and uses interesting things like moss and snakeskin instead of the posterboard and Sharpies that I would use. He has made the process fun for the kids and for that, I'm thankful. Incredibly thankful. More thankful than I can put into words on this page because, while he was helping cut and glue, I was catching up on the news commentators speculations on whether or not we'll ever really know who actually made the shot that took Osama bin Laden's life.

My personal favorite was the scenario the guys on Dallas' The Ticket speculated.

'Seal Team 6 guy is at Thanksgiving dinner with his family and his little sister's annoyingly boastful, young, upwardly mobile, yuppie husband. An afternoon of him jawing on and on and on about his clients, power lunches, and great tickets to the Cowboys season opener, is wearing on Seal Team 6 guy. Finally, he's had it and can't stand another minute. "Dude, you know the greatest terror threat of our generation? I killed him. Now, make yourself useful and go get me some more turkey and dressing. And cranberries. I like the cranberries.'

2. When I was in the eighth grade, I went to debate camp at Baylor University. The national debate topic for the year was on Wetland Conservation. The knowledge I gleaned that summer and subsequent year debating carried me through many a science fair, extra credit project, and research paper. My junior year at A&M, to satisfy a science credit, I found myself in a Geography class because, duh, how easy could that be? Not easy. After two tests I had a nice solid D. That's when I noticed on our syllabus that an optional 25 page paper could be written on anything pertaining to Geography for, like, 40% of your grade. I hammered out a paper on wetlands in about a day and made a B in the class.

So, when Sadie came home the other day and I was kind of half listening to her tell the story of the ecosystem she'd been assigned, I heard 'wetlands' and panicked. Although I love the topic, the thought of turning my love into something that was actually interesting to look at inside a shoe box gave me the willies. Thankfully, when she again explained her tear-induced, ecocystem-reassignement to Rainforests, I rejoiced at being, once again free from the bonds of semester project assisting.

If it weren't totally innapropriate, considering the timing, I might say I dodged a bullet there. But, that would be totally inappropriate.

On a side note, as an additional visual aid, Sadie took Oliver Twist, the Ball Python to hold while she presented.

Walking to the car in the school parking lot, Olivia was holding the snake and kind of messing with it.

"Olivia, what are you doing?"

"Oliver has a splinter in him and I'm trying to get it out...hang on...I... can't... get it."

"Let me see, baby...Oh...Hmmm...Huh...Oh! Olivia, sweetie, that's not a splinter. That's Oliver's penis."

The learning really never ends, does it?

West Dallas Earn-a-Bike Program...in the News

2011-05-02T05:56:00.000-05:00

This really great article ran in yesterday's Dallas Morning News about the Bicycle Garden at Mercy Street. Johnny is my friend Hannah's brother and truly a gift to the city.

Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out how to access it on their website and became frustrated and ate Dea's chocolate bunny he'd put in the back of the refrigerator from Easter.

Sorry, Dea.

Now, I'm all jacked up on sugar so I decided to just re-type it so you could read it. It will bless you, I promise.

Melissa Repko wrote it and did her first name proud. ;)

MENTOR SMOOTHS TEENS' ROUGH RIDE

In a small garage in West Dallas, DeMarcus Moore learned how to change a flat tire. He also learned how to talk to girls and cope with bullies.

At 15, he's considered an elder at the West Dallas Bicycle Co-op, where he joins about a dozen boys and girls each Wednesday night to memorize names of wrenches and scour rust off bike frames.

The class began in autumn with a promise that if students put in the hours, they'd ride away with bikes of their own.

Johnny Garippa runs vocational programs ranging from the bike shop to a gardening club at Mercy Street, a Christian non-profit in West Dallas. For the teens in the bike co-op, especially the boys, the 35-year-old is seen as an older brother, a male role model for some who don't know their dads.

They say he gives good advice on everything from school to siblings. But most of all, he's there to listen.

In a neighborhood that's home to many single-parent families with low incomes, Johnny would like to see the bike shop take hold and eventually be led by its students. Amid the wheels and gears and workbenches, he hopes bike skills might transfer into life skills.

"We're kind of in the business of dignity restoration," Johnny says. "The greatest kind of poverty is believeing that you have nothing to offer," he says, loosely quoting Mother Teresa. The surprise, Johnny adds, is that he's learned as much as he's taught.

Johnny Garippa wears a scruffy beard and flannel shirts. He works with bike greatse so often that it's more or less permanent under his fingernails.

One of seven children, he learned early how to work with his hands. his father was a pastor in Glendale, AZ, and stretching a pastor's salary meant gardening, fixing cars and a lot of doing-it-yourself.

DREAM JOB

Johnny got a bachelor's degree in international business in 1998 and scored a dream job for an avid kayaker and climber - working in product development for the North Face, a California-based maker of high-end outdoor gear.

But after four years, he grew disillusioned with tents and jackets that seemend to signal that nature came with a hefty price tag.

He quit and spent a summer bikeing along the coast near Santa Cruz, CA. He tried to decide what to do next.

Back in Arizona, he built swimming pools and spent free hours at a community center in South Pheonix, a poor part of town. The community center had a youth mentoring program and a shop called Barrio Bikes.

When he moved to Dallas for theology school in 2005, he found out about Mercy Street's work in West Dallas. The non-profit had been founded in 2003 as a mentoring program. He made a pitch: He wanted to turn a forgotten storage room full of broken mirrors, boxes and cobwebs into a community bike shop.

He would sign up kids to take classes in bike repair an dallow them a chance to earn their own wheels. One day, they could even sell refurbished bikes as a small business.

"I was sold from the beginning," recalls Trey Hill, Mercy Street's executive director. "I was sold on Johnny as a person." He describes Johnny fondly, as a Christian hippie."

DeMarcus, the 15-year-old, carries himself with a quiet maturity - thought he cracks a smile and talks in rapid bursts around friends.

He lived close to the bike shop when he was 11 or 12 and was curious about it. He's hang around, silently watching.

At 13, he became one of the youngest memebrs of Mercy Street's summer work crew and began repairing his first bike, a white BMX with blue stripes.

To Johnny's surprise, DeMarcus showed up on time each day. He completed the bike and earned the status of "junior leader", a coach for younger students in weekly bike classes.

Like most 15-year-olds, DeMarcus doesn't know what he'd like to be when he grows up. Perhaps he'll study the culinary arts. His signature dish - pasta Alfredo with shrimp sauteed in garlic - is a hit, even with his three younger siblings.

Or maybe he'll become an engineer. He'd like to learn more about what's inside a computer or the engine of a BMW.

But unlike many teen boys, he feels a deep loyalty to his neighborhood. He still considers West Dallas home, even thought he lives with his mom an dsiblings in Irving now.

"If I become big and famous, I'll come back and help Mercy Street," he says. "I'll come back to my roots."

SETTING THE RULES

Building a bike is a great social equalizer, Johnny says. It doesn't matter where you come from, what pressures you have at school, what problems at home. The only way to prove yourself is with you own two hands.

"Here's how it's going to work," he tells his young charges on a chilly night in December. "One hour equals $2. If you go to each class, that counts as two hours, and you can put in hours any time."

Bikes cost up to $150. Do the math, he tells the kids.

The classroom breaks out in sighs.

"Oh, man." one student says.

"Really?" says another.

One kids stands up and pretends to walk out the door.

"you are in a program called Earn-a-Bike, not give a bike," johnny says. "We're trying to get you to the point where you say, 'This bike is valuable. I put a lot of work into it.'"

Attendance fluctuates from week to week, but nearly 20 students crowd the room on one particular night: It's when the students picke the bikes to repair and refurbish, the ones they'll make their own.

DeMarcus picks a bright yellow Mongoose.

It's spring, and in the months that have passed, the bike shop has continued to gain popularity.

There's a waiting list of students for next fall. The co-op has started making its first sales. It holds a monthly bicycle bazaar to increase neighbornood awareness and to sell repaired bikes to help fund the shop.

After school, Johnny drives to pick up DeMarcus in Irving.

"They've taught be about the beauty of life," Johnny says of his students as he drives down Irving Boulevard.

"Getting to be side-by-side to them, developing a relationship with them. It's been about as honest as you can get."

Johnny rolls down the windows. DeMarcus and another boy hop in the truck.

They rumble down the road, talking about last night's class, how to keep the shop's troublemaker in line, when they'll hold their next group bike ride.

They pull into the driveway. A hand-painted sign marks the door of an old storage area, their new bike shop.

"Hey!" Johnny says. "Were home."

Inside, bikes-in-progress hang next to the names of their future owners.

DeMarcus spent weeks tinkering with and polishing his bike. The yellow Mongoose is shined up and ready for a ride - but it won't be his much longer.

At a sale, the bike catches a customer's eye, and she decided to buy it.

"It's cool," DeMarcus says later, with a shrug.

There will be other bikes, he says. He's glad that of all the bikes, she likes his.

Then, DeMarcus watches as, with his blessing, the Mongoose is wheeled away.

Hugs, for Pete's sake.

2011-04-15T08:26:00.012-05:00

Having two teenage boys living with you can be challenging.

They lived a whole life before we ever met. And although it's a life I would have changed for them - rescued them from if I could have - it was the life the Lord had for them and it's shaped who they've become.

Kids who've grown up in the inner-city have lots of defenses. Walls they've constructed over time to protect themselves. They can be merciless to one another about clothes, haircuts, and shoes. Mommas, and teeth. And often, innocence is regarded as weakness. Boys especially don't hug or hold hands and Dea and Darius are often at a loss when Graham gives them a big hug when they walk through the door or when he wants to hold their hand walking around Six Flags. Often, they respond with, "Naw, man. That's gay." Or, dude. That's fruity."

So, the other day, when my boys said the same thing to each other, we had a long talk. (the long talk followed me telling them to stop calling each other 'gay' using my outside voice. I may have popped a vessel.)

After I'd calmed down, I explained to both my little boys that brothers hug, and there's nothing sexual about it. It's a hug and it's innocent and it's one of the ways we demonstrate love. So, please, stop classifying innocence as something other than what it is.

That afternoon, Graham, who's my most demonstratively affectionate, went to Dea. "Dea, it's time for your daily hug!" Dea said, "Dude, guys don't hug. That's fruity." Then, Graham did what I should have done long ago. He said just matter of factly, "Dea, your my brother and I'm gonna hug you. It's not fruity, it's just what brothers do."

Hours later, I got a text on my phone, "MaMelissa, tell Graham I'm sorry I called his hugs fruity. They're not fruity."

And Graham's smile could have lit the city.

Having purified your souls by your obedience to the truth for a sincere brotherly love, love one another earnestly from a pure heart, since you have been born again, not of perishable seed but of imperishable, through the living and abiding word of God;"

1 Peter, 1:22-23

Love and Duct Tape

2011-04-12T11:15:00.003-05:00

Last Saturday night, I had the privilege of celebrating my sixteenth wedding anniversary with Trey.

Our anniversary was actually Friday but that night was spent bowling and eating at CiCi's in celebration of Dea's birthday. Nothing really says romance more than bowling a 48 and eating at a pizza buffet. I do enjoy the Diet Coke at CC's, though. I'm not gonna lie.

The sweetest thing was Thursday when, in front of several of his staff, Trey put his arm around me and said, "Tomorrow, I get to celebrate 15 years of being married to this beautiful woman." For reasons totally known to both of us, he has blocked out an entire year of our marriage. It was year one. And it was not pretty, friends. Not pretty at all. In fact, I remember meeting other newlyweds and being convinced they were totally lying when they said their first year of marriage was absolute bliss. I may have even screamed "LIAR" to their faces once or twice.

I somehow stopped getting their Christmas cards shortly afterward.

Weird.

Anyway, the Lord has a funny way of taking all our expectations and 'I deserves' and flipping them on their tails only to show us His way is better, and more beautiful, and stronger than we could have ever imagined.

So last night, when I almost cut my finger off opening a bottle of wine - don't ask, I never said I was coordinated - and I got a little lightheaded, I looked right at Trey and he knew he'd better take charge or his bride was going down. I can deal with a lot of gross stuff but for some reason, deep cuts to my own appendages make me all whoozy and light-headed. Once I sliced my finger deep opening a package of bacon - I also never promised you I was a healthy eater - and the only person around was a 6'3" teenage basketball player named Ollie who almost fainted himself. I personally think it was more over the realization that he wouldn't be getting breakfast anytime soon rather than my gushing wound.

Speaking of breakfast, how's your's treating ya right about now?

Anyway, my husband of 16 years took the corkscrew from my hand, took me upstairs, doused me with Bactine - even blew on it so it wouldn't sting, and bandaged me up.

Unfortunately, I didn't have any bandaids which begs the question, "What kind of mother doesn't have bandaids?"

This one. My excuse? The last box I bought was emptied in 6 minutes by children wanting to look like they'd been to war. 'Cause when you're facing automatic weapon enemy fire, you're sure hoping your medic has some Dora bandaids on hand.

That's when Trey got all resourceful on me and got 'er done with some paper towels and duct tape. I like the fact that he sometimes uses miscellaneous household objects to mend his family instead of rushing them to the E.R. Graham has an ever so slight scar to prove it just at his hairline. One summer evening, he hit his head on an electrical box at a baseball game and Trey super glued the cut together, patted him on the shoulder and said, "There you go, buddy, now let's get back in that game."

He doctors us all with nary a wince, or getting all queasy and weak-stomached, or making fun of me for my ability to inflict serious, serious injury upon myself with a dull object.

That, folks, is love.

Oh, hello.

2011-04-06T20:05:00.014-05:00

Hi!

Er, I mean, hey.

The dog ate my computer.

Actually, that's not true. My computer is actually larger than one of my dogs and the other one wouldn't do such a thing because although she's ugly, she's my favorite. You know, you can say that with dogs - but don't go picking favorites with your children. Even if one of them asks just after the other three have been fussed at for fighting violently over the clicker because one wants to watch Cake Boss and the other two want to watch Top Shot because Colby Donaldson is a fine and engaging host.

On that note, a friend of mine recently pointed out that, when you totally lose it and go all crazy-mom, and you yell and the ground shakes, if you just call it fussing, it kinda pretty's it up a little.

"Oh, I just fussed a little."

Really? Your head spun.

Uh. Huh. Fussed.

Anyway, in all honesty, for about a week, I totally forgot that I actually had a blog. Then, I remembered and had so much to talk about that I didn't know where to begin so I just skipped another week and now, here we are.

Crickets chirping...

Seriously, we've had a time. There were fun things like a couple of Thursday's ago, my friend Kasey brought a group over from Shreveport to help out at Mercy Street for the night. We had some last minute music mix-ups for our new Intersections program so Miss Jacque and I, for a moment, told the girls they might have to lead worship. (Sometimes we like to jack with the visitors.) Then we sang for them just to prove that a total singing misfit and someone with a fabulous voice could work together in beautiful harmony.

Don't tell Miss Jacque I called her a singing misfit but really, of the two of us, isn't it OBVIOUS?

And may I also add that this video makes very apparent to me that living amongst lots of beautiful people with great rhythm and mad dancing skilz for eight years has done absolutely nothing for my personal ability to either dance or carry on in any sort of sensical rhythm.

And did you notice I'm wearing my two favorite accessories? My cowboy boots and my seven year old child who I think was hanging on to me trying to make her nightmare of her momma singing in public stop.

Then there were some not-so-fun things like my genius idea that I needed a new bathing suit for summer. For the record, I also like to scrape my fingernails of chalkboards just for kicks. Let me just ask you something and I want you to answer real honest-like. If every store I go in has the absolute most unflattering lighting known to man, it is reasonable to assume that, in fact, I might be the problem, not the lighting?

I didn't think so.

And, did you know that if you skip three classes in four weeks or ten classes in six months in a DISD high school, and you ignore the court date set for you, they will actually come and get you out of class, handcuff you, and take you to jail just like they say they will on those court papers that you ignored? And then, your guardian will have to leave a meeting and come get your hiney out of the Big House. And he will not be happy with you. Not happy at all.

A little bird told me that one.

His name was Darius.

Surprise chicken.

2011-03-24T21:22:00.000-05:00

I love me a nice little surprise and in my old age (I say that TOTALLY tongue in cheek so nobody nod in agreement), I've realized there are little surprises every day, you just have to look for them.

Some simultaneously make you laugh and become very concerned about your parenting skillz...

1. Tee was home sick and when I walked upstairs, he was watching Larry the Cable Guy - Only in America. I told him I wasn't sure he needed to be watching this show (I'd never seen it but was pretty sure I'd rather Phineas and Ferb teach him about America, not the cable guy. His reply went something like this...

"Mom, it's totally ok for me to watch. He's only learning to make Moonshine."

Some make you nod in agreement affirming the child talking is indeed the friut of your womb...

2. When I picked Sadie up in carpool, she told me she had to talk about a problem she was having at school.

Seeing the board?

Making friends?

Bullying?

Peer pressure to grow up to become a contestant on Dancing with the Stars?

"Mom, you know how the floor in our classroom is made up of those special tiles? Well, sometimes, when I'm listening to a story, I can't pay attention because all I can think about is the real-bad willies I would get if I accidentally scraped my bottom teeth on those tiles."

And others are surprising that, in fact, even your lame, last minute attempts at a nutritious, well-balanced, but tasty dinner can be redeemed with a little faith and butter....

3. Tonight, I had nothing. Nothing. To. Cook.

Except some plain ol' boring chicken breasts and some broccoli. Yawn. The broccoli, I was ok with because my children could eat roasted broccoli until the cows came home. Which, if the cows actually would come home, at least I would have something interesting for dinner like a nice juicy rib-eye. I digress.

Anyway, somehow, I MADE THE BEST STINKIN' BAKED CHICKEN ON THE PLANET and because I'm a giver, I'm going to share the recipe with you. I'm not actually a giver according to my kids who are always trying to swipe my Diet Coke but tonight, I'm turning over a new leaf.

First off, I need to tell you that there will not be any pictures of the aforementioned chicken breasts. I have decided food is very difficult to photograph unless your name is Pioneer Woman and every time I try to photograph it, the food looks inedible. And I have food photography insecurities. I am unashamed.

Also, I know what your probably thinking; 'best baked chicken' sounds like an oxymoron but this recipe will renew your faith in chicken breasts, 350 degrees, and 30 minutes.

Here goes.

Take chicken breasts and season them with garlic salt and coursely ground pepper. Chill for two hours in refrigerator or don't like I didn't and live life on the edge.

Before baking, brush with melted butter and sprinkle with paprika.

Bake on a cookie sheet at 350 for 30 minutes.

Es todo.

Yum.

The adult people liked it, the little people liked it, and Scout liked it because we had a friend of Sadie's here who didn't understand Hill House Rule #7: Never leave chicken unattended. It is like sending an invitation to Scout to take it from your plate and eat it while your watching in disbelief.

Surprise!

Spring Break ala San Antonio.

2011-03-22T06:25:00.001-05:00

So, we had a pretty busy Spring Break over at Casa de Hill.

San Antonio was on our minds and we took off Sunday for the week. I'm sorry, did someone forget to tell me that the entire United States of America had San Antonio on their minds, too? If the world was our oyster, San Antonio was the pearl everyone was dying to grab and apparently, that pearl was going to be had at one of two places; Sea World, Fiesta Texas, or the River Walk. I know that's three but I spent my entire week surrounded by strangers, constantly counting children. 1..2..3..4..5..1..2..3..4..5., and now I'm taking a little latitude with my numbers because if I lose one, or forget one, it's not going to be in a sea of people in tank tops.

And bathing suits.

We saw lots of bathing suits at Sea World and can I just say, for the record, that I am just not ready for bathing suit season to begin. On myself or others - either way. In the words of Darrell, 'Brother, you can't unsee that'.

Can I get an Amen?

Darius was the most patient 17 year old ever to walk the planet - not once the entire time did he get a little irritated with the kids even though they fought almost constantly over who sat by him, who held his hand, and who got to wake him up in the morning. And I can attest from experience that my children do not go gentle into any good morning. It kind of involves jumping, shouting, and ripping warm covers from body. It can ruin your day.

Even in this picture, the evidence is clear. Darius loves himself some Dippin' Dots but any time he'd get some, the other kids would all grab spoons and ask for "just one bite" which would be all fine and good if it wasn't times four. Look. He's the only one with ice cream and they ALL have spoons!

Little turkeys. They totally get that from their daddy.

The only point where I saw a glimps of exasperation from Darius was on the ride home from Fiesta Texas when Sadie, who at that point was sitting in the middle seat with Darius while Tee, Olivia, and Graham sat in the third row poked her head between Trey and my seat and said in her best fake-heartbroken voice, "Y'all, I'm lonely back here."

I thought Dr. Pepper was going to shoot out Darius' nose because, really, lonely was the just about the last thing any of us had been in five days. He, probably most of all.

We made it back with all the children and luggage and a nifty addition of a five foot stuffed chili pepper with a chef's hat that reads 'Freakin' Hot' so all in all, yeah, it was a pretty great trip.

Now, let's see how long I have to dust and how many times am I gonna have to pick that chili pepper up off the floor before the kids forget they've sworn eternal love for it and I can toss it while they're at school. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Not quite unsilenced yet.

2011-03-21T11:49:00.002-05:00

Yeah, I thought I'd be back in full swing this morning - I was wrong. I'm scrambling to get the house clean, groceries bought, and dogs off my bed so I can make the thing before Trey comes home.

Fat chance.

Anyway, I guess I've got to take care of my actual responsibilities before I can have fun on here and tell you all about our Spring Break. I will say, though, it was mighty exciting. Our restaurant choice for breakfast caught on fire and I officially decided Hell would be having to spend eternity walking around Ripley's Believe it or Not suffering from a non-stop case of the willies.

See you tomorrow!

Bloggers Day of Silence.

2011-03-17T19:45:00.000-05:00

We're back from Spring Break and oh, oh, oh, my stars do I have lots to share. The least of which was my husband's terrifying metamorphasis into Clark Griswold beginning with a wake up call at 7:55 Monday morning. "Sea World isn't gonna come to us, people. To have any kind of fun today, we need to be there before the gates open! BEFORE THE GATES OPEN!!! MOVE IT! MOVE IT!!"

But, in honor of our friends on the other side of the ocean, though, I'll be participating in a Bloggers Day of Silence tomorrow hosted by UtterlyEngaged and Ever Ours.

If you feel compelled to help, just click on the banner above and it'll take you where you need to go.

Praying. Praying. Praying for you Japan.

Father in heaven, you are the absolute Sovereign over the shaking of the earth, the rising of the sea, and the raging of the waves. We tremble at your power and bow before your unsearchable judgments and inscrutable ways. We cover our faces and kiss your omnipotent hand. We fall helpless to the floor in prayer and feel how fragile the very ground is beneath our knees.

O God, we humble ourselves under your holy majesty and repent. In a moment—in the twinkling of an eye—we too could be swept away. We are not more deserving of firm ground than our fellowmen in Japan. We too are flesh. We have bodies and homes and cars and family and precious places. We know that if we were treated according to our sins, who could stand? All of it would be gone in a moment. So in this dark hour we turn against our sins, not against you.

And we cry for mercy for Japan. Mercy, Father. Not for what they or we deserve. But mercy.

Have you not encouraged us in this? Have we not heard a hundred times in your Word the riches of your kindness, forbearance, and patience? Do you not a thousand times withhold your judgments, leading your rebellious world toward repentance? Yes, Lord. For your ways are not our ways, and your thoughts are not our thoughts.

Grant, O God, that the wicked will forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts. Grant us, your sinful creatures, to return to you, that you may have compassion. For surely you will abundantly pardon. Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord Jesus, your beloved Son, will be saved.

May every heart-breaking loss—millions upon millions of losses—be healed by the wounded hands of the risen Christ. You are not unacquainted with your creatures' pain. You did not spare your own Son, but gave him up for us all.

In Jesus you tasted loss. In Jesus you shared the overwhelming flood of our sorrows and suffering. In Jesus you are a sympathetic Priest in the midst of our pain.

Deal tenderly now, Father, with this fragile people. Woo them. Win them. Save them.

And may the floods they so much dread make blessings break upon their head.

O let them not judge you with feeble sense, but trust you for your grace. And so behind this providence, soon find a smiling face.

In Jesus’ merciful name, Amen.

John Piper