a long way from the Theta house

Maundy Thursday.

2013-03-28T19:39:00.001-05:00

It's chilly in Dallas today. Spring has been slower to come this year and today is one of those days where I can't seem to get warm. I'm a wimp when it comes to the weather - cold especially. I get pretty miserable really fast. Compound it with wind and I'm done. When my brother went through Hell Week during Navy SEAL training, he described how the instructors would repeatedly call for the men to "get wet and sandy". They would run into the frigid Pacific Ocean, exhausted already, and then have to roll up the beach, covering themselves in sand, and then just lay there freezing in the surf until the instructors released them. Sometimes, it was hours. When he made it through, and we saw pictures of him, he had a large kind of bump on either side of his face.

"What's that on your face, bro?" (I don't really call him 'bro' - I'm not cool that way.)

"They're my jaw muscles - it's from shivering".

No.

So, in West Dallas, the homeless in the cold always get to me. Sometimes, shelters are full and the habits are strong and I've seen men change into gifted long underwear in the closed car wash at the 7- eleven because they weren't allowed in the store anymore.

And a couple of thousand years after the fact, I think about the night Jesus was arrested. The trial. The scourging. And the sympathy and justice teased out but abandoned in the hunger for blood and power. The Bible speaks to all of this. And sometimes, I wonder if it was compounded by cold. Did his toes feel numb and did the wind blow dust in his eyes all night testing his resolve even more? Did he sit on a concrete floor longing for days in the sun with his disciples? Or infinitely better yet, in the warmth of the presence of his Father?

The greatness of his sacrifice already levels me. What the Lord endured for my freedom and the kind of death that was required on my behalf is overwhelming. But sometimes, I think about the simple physical pain he felt. How all his resources were stripped away with his freedom and he was at the mercy of guards and men who wanted him dead.

Grace. It all was grace.

A couple of months ago, friend of mine asked me contribute to an Easter devotional she was putting together. My topic was, He is Sacrifice, and since writing it, I keep seeing more and more ways Jesus was that for me before I even knew I needed it.

Here's an excerpt...

"Beloved, we are not intrinsically drawn to stories or even songs of sacrifice because of pithy sentiment. Our hearts jump out of our chests because we are beneficiaries of the greatest, most profound sacrifice ever made. We can't help but love even dim reflections because they ultimately point to the one-of-a-kind glory in Jesus Christ, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, who died so that we might live".

The devotional along with Easter Ornaments can be ordered at It's Treedition.

May you enjoy a blessed Easter and see glimpses of His sacrifice all around you.

Overexposed.

2013-03-05T22:45:00.002-06:00

Our family has attended Park Cities Presbyterian Church for years. And years. Coming out of a bible church background, the whole 'high church' style of worship was new to me.

Our pastors wear robes.

Sometimes, when I'm getting dressed on Sunday mornings and spend all my time trying to find clothes for my children that are clean, I wish I could wear a robe.

I love singing hymns with a full choir and a large organ or piano. Maybe because I can't hear myself singing loud and off key. A little glimpse of Heaven.

Anyway, the fine Women's Ministry folk have started a devotional page just for men. not really, it's for women - but that would be funny.

And those fine women folk asked me to write this week's devotional. It's below, but you can also subscribe to it here. And you can read it in your robe. Win/win.

Overexposed.

Growing up in the eighties and early nineties, I perhaps didn't clearly grasp the need for adequate sunscreen. I may have used Crisco. And I have indeed seen the inside of a tanning bed more than thrice. Now, at 41, I'm seeing the results of my solar misconduct firsthand. Upon first meeting my dermatologist, he took one look at my sun-damaged skin and said a little too excitedly, "Oh, you're going to be a good patient." Now he sends me Christmas cards from his lake house that I'm sure I've helped fund.

These days, epidermal-y speaking, we're taught to cover up. That, if we avoid exposing our delicate skin to the harsh rays of the sun, we will preserve it's tenderness and health. We use SPF 55, wear long, gauzy, sleeves in the burning heat, and don hats with brims the size of bistro tables. And, I'm wondering if we've begun to employ that practice in our relationships as well. I'm wondering if, in an effort to protect our delicate hearts and preserve their tenderness, we are covering them from exposure in our community of Christian women. Perhaps its a predisposition to self-protect, or perhaps we've been burned before and the sting and residual damage has caused us to reflexively pull our metaphorical sweaters a bit tighter over our shoulders. But the idea of being known isn't something we should fear - it's something we were created to long for. I talked to a new mom the other day at school and, when I asked how the adjustment to Dallas had been, she said, "You know, I've realized how important it is for us to be really known. That's been the hardest thing about moving - no one knows us."

She's right..

Being known, in fact, is an extravagant gift of our Heavenly Father. First Corinthians 8:3 says, "But if anyone loves God, he is known by God" and as his body, the fact that we are not only completely known by our Father but even in our known-ness, we are absolutely beloved, brings us liberty without fear. And from that beautiful, primary relationship, we are able to literally overflow with a deluge of blood-bought love toward one another. Reckless, fearless, love.

The other day, I spoke at the Bridge and it terrified me. I told the women that I love to write but speaking, not so much. I feel exposed and I can't edit and I'm all too familiar with the verse, "Out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks." (Matt 12:34). I feared how what I said might expose what lied deep in my heart - how it might change perceptions of me. I cried and stuttered in front of a group of you. There was snot. And the evil surmising began the moment I walked out the door. "Why did you say that?" "For sure you offended someone with that comment!" "What in the world are people going to think of you now when they see you in church"! It was super-fun.

Opening up to one another takes practice and it's scary. I think we all fear friendly-fire and so it feels safer and even right to cover those parts of our lives that are tender, ugly, or different. But, I pray as I move forward - as we all move forward - in this church, I will resist the urge to protect and preserve my heart like shielding my skin from the harsh sun. Instead I hope to practice being known and knowing one another in the deep places of our souls that we might walk in transparent friendship and honesty. Our lights together in the body of Christ are brighter than our light alone - reflecting the Son.

Year ten.

2013-01-08T12:28:00.000-06:00

Oh, the blank page of a new post. Sometimes, I can't get my thoughts out fast enough and others, well, it's been three weeks since my last post so that pretty much explains it.

The kids went back to school today and the house is quiet. No t.v., video games, or the constant bing of incoming text messages and I'm loving the quiet. We had a great break. Quiet and relaxing with just enough to do to keep things interesting.

We celebrated two birthdays over the break, mine, and Olivia's. I gotta say, it's pretty fun turning 41 and all but turning 12 is a whole other category of party.

For mine, Trey and I had a fun date night out. One of Dallas' most beautiful restaurants, fabulous dinner, and a fun surprise mixed in.

About halfway through our main course, a handsome young waiter comes up to our table. "Mr. Trey"? Trey broke out into a huge smile, "Roger"! Roger, now grown, was in the first class of kids coming through Mercy Street. He was tough and constantly drawn to the life of a thug that pulls so hard on kids in West Dallas. He struggled, his mentor struggled, and Trey struggled to help him see his profound potential. His mentor was faithful - even when he was being pushed away - but stuck with him through graduation. Roger, now, confident, smiling, and working the room, had grown into a responsible, confident, young man with a promising job and the admiration of his boss and co-workers. After we caught up for a second, the General Manager of the restaurant came up to our table and asked how we knew Roger. He said he was one of his best employees and how thankful he was to have him. That he'd been in the business for a long time and saw a bright future for Roger.

This year will mark Mercy Street's tenth year. Our family has lived in the neighborhood for nine. We're thankful that the scenes above are happening more and more. Lives are being changed, communities are being changed, and we are being shaped, humbled, woven into the fabric of this beautiful, hard, beloved place. A friend, Shannon, asked me the other day what I'd learned after so long in the inner-city. I told her I've learned that I don't know much. Life is a messy business and the pain and joys all come together to form some sort of mixed up concoction. She, so wise and funny, said she sometimes calls it holy shit. We bring in our junk, there's junk already here, and it can be a hot mess. The Lord, however, in grace upon grace that we can't understand, makes it a holy business - pointing us to Him again and again knowing that these are His people, His community, His ministry, and we are all His workmanship and we are not finished yet.

Thank you for all of you who have followed this blog and the story of our family and our wild ride. 2013 already feels like a big one and I hope you'll stick around.

Taking matters into her own hands.

2012-12-23T15:06:00.001-06:00

Admittedly, it's been a little more hectic of a Christmas than usual. Maybe it's not actually more hectic because I'm by nature a procrastinator but it sure feels that way.

Our trouble started the week after Thanksgiving when Sadie came down with a little something and ended up missing a week of school. Having the generous heart she does, she then shared it with the rest of our family minus Trey which we were thankful for because we needed someone to pick up our medicine, warm our chicken soup, and remind us to brush our teeth.

Pretty.

It was awful. Even two weeks after our last fever broke, we're still a little weak and pale and thin. And it consumed the week of December which has made getting ready for Christmas crazier.

And with the crazy, we've had to put some things aside. Last year, the kids - READ: Sadie - asked if an Elf on the Shelf could come visit us this Christmas. Unfortunately, this momma forgot to invite one. I blame the fever.

So, the other afternoon, while I was getting ready to host Mercy Street's staff Christmas party, and the house was clean, Sadie started getting crafty. She pulled out scissors, glue guns, a giant roll of tape, and...I don't know - I was trying to make appetizers...and went to town. I had no idea what she was making, I just begged her to clean up before our people arrived. And to please, please, please not spill the giant bottle of glitter Trey brought home for her.

Sometimes, he forgets about the long-term consequences of spilled glitter.

About thirty minutes later, my determined, creative, spicy child presented me with her masterpiece.

Apparently, if Momma forgets to invite an Elf on the Shelf to our house, darn it, my youngest child will just build her own out of a Solo cup, a plastic football, greenery, and googly eyes.

And thankfully, no glitter.

As usual, she, and the whole gaggle of them, reminded me that my favorite gifts are never the ones under the tree.

Merry Christmas!

Marketability.

2012-11-17T21:29:00.000-06:00

I had a conversation the other day with a friend's husband who was asking me what I did before I had kids.

Um, slept in on Saturdays, went to spontaneous movies, finished a sentence - or a complete thought, only did laundry once a week? Is that what you mean?

He was actually asking me about my job - you know, what I did to earn all that money so I could make it rain at the Banana Republic. It took me a second. I mean, I knew who I worked for and what our company did, but I had a hard time remembering exactly what I did. What were all those mad skills?

It would be super if I could look at my old resume but it was collateral damage on a computer that crashed after Dea and Darius kept downloading "free" music. It was our first lesson that 'ain't nothin' free in this world'.

Because t's been almost 14 years since I've worked, I'm a little bit curious about the marketability of my experience as a stay at home mom. And so, just as a little exercise, I started thinking today about all the things I could do...here's a smattering. Or nine.

1. Hold a piece of cold fried chicken in one hand while separating my daughter,s super-glued fingers with nail polish remover.

2. Have a pretty decent library of items I can cook for 60.

3. Cook for 12 every night of the week for months.

4. Catch and release a mouse that's been lost in my car for weeks.

(Sadie actually did the releasing 'cause, you know, willies.)

4. Fix a washing machine.

5. Groom my own dog.*

6. Clean up and dispose of a neighbors dog who had been hit by a car.

7. Cornrow hair.*

8. Avoid the very crowded and 'black hole of time' emergency room by super-gluing an open head would back together.

9. Accidentally have my neighbor's dog put to sleep.

Now, my only hurdle is to somehow spin the above into some kind of skill-set that might actually benefit a business owned by a human person who might actually pay me some cash money. Made even more difficult by the fact that number 5 also resulted in the maiming of my dog, and number 7 is a bald-faced lie.

I'll replace it with, 'learned to be honest'.

For when our kids get married.

2012-10-29T09:59:00.000-05:00

A little less that 18 years ago, Trey and I stood on a stone patio in the Mexican sunset, surrounded by our family, and started a life together like one I could never have imagined.

We've moved, changed jobs, had babies, moved again, started ministries, mourned, rejoiced, and felt the grace and mercy of the Lord wash over us again and again as we fumble our way through together.

I remember that day in April like it was yesterday. Worrying about flowers and details, saying no to the pink flamingos they wanted to display, and yes to the harpist. Traveling with no curling iron or nail polish, my brother's white uniform, tres leches cake, and a long walk down the aisle with my dad.

I can smell the salt in the air still.

This past weekend, we had the joy of celebrating the wedding of the beautiful sister of one of my closest friends. It, too, was small and intimate and full of family. One of the most beautiful weddings I've seen. As we all recapped at the reception, there are a few things us old married ladies decided we want our own kids, and our neighborhood kids, to know - the rest is just frosting.

1. The pastor was a long-time friend and lover of Jesus and brought the gospel to the forefront. Anyone can tell you you're compatible, but a man of God will teach you the truth - that marriage is a 'long business' and dying to self is a daily exercise. Even at the alter, it needs to be said.

2. Huge weddings are fun parties but small, intimate ones are truly celebrations. We want to see you smile at one another while somebody sings. We want to cheer, and clap, and high-five when they announce you as Mr. and Mrs. for the first time. We want to hear your nephews whisper, "Is it almost over already"? and "Did somebody toot"? and "She's my Aunt"!

3. The music is pretty important. More than the food or even the cake - well, barely more than the cake. Those people who have prayed for you, walked with you through the good, the bad, and the ugly, want to dance with you and real, real good music makes everyone feel like they've got sweet moves. Even when they don't. And by they, I mean me.

4. Even with the very best planning, notebooks, coordinators, and Pinterest boards, the wedding really is just a means to an end. It's the marriage that's the culmination and, as hard as it is to believe at the time, there are memories far greater yet to come.

5. Dance with your brothers and sisters like when you were little. Relish in these moments together. Celebrate one another for things that are hard-fought and hard-won.

6. Know that not everyone who will be at your wedding will be in your marriage. It's part of growing in new directions. The Lord brings relationships for different seasons and as he takes away some, he replaces with exactly who you need.

7. Marry someone who loves Jesus more than you.

That last one really should be first, and could be only. Eighteen years ago, Trey and I couldn't have imagined that one day, we would dream of four weddings, or five, or six. On top of that, we'll prayerfully celebrate marriages of lots our kids in West Dallas as our boys become men, and husbands, and fathers and our girls become women, and wives, and mothers. Oh, what glorious days those will be. And we'll dance.

A political exercise.

2012-10-11T17:03:00.001-05:00

This month, the sixth grade class at my kids' school is memorizing the Gettysburg Address.

We gave Olivia's classmate, Cooper, a ride home the other day and the two started reciting it together. It's simple and beautifully written. Along with the actual speech, the kids have also memorized some of the important historical facts about the war, the setting, and the author.

Needless to say, I've had the privilege of hearing it over and over again the past couple of weeks.

In light of our upcoming Vice-Presidential debates tonight, round two of the Presidential debates next week, and the election just weeks away, it's worth a read.

It'll take you about two minutes to get through it. Trust me, I know.

'Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth'.

- Abraham Lincoln

Have a great night.

Sent from my iPhone

I knew this day would come.

2012-10-03T22:35:00.000-05:00

First of all, THANK YOU to all who gave to Mercy Street last week during Donor Bridge. Wow! Not only were we blown away by the dollar amount raised (over $153,000!) but we were so humbled by how many got up and gave to the ministry.

The giving ended at midnight and it's taken me a couple of days to catch up on my sleep.

Age is getting to me a little.

Which brings me to the topic at hand.

When our second child was born and the doctor said, "It's a GIRL"! I was overwhelmed with joy. Really. At the same time, however, I could feel a tiny kernel of dread plant itself in the deep places of my soul,. When our fourth was born and she too was without male parts, I felt the kernel grow - into a giant redwood of anxiety - even in the hospital. My fear was over a question I knew would someday come and the thought of it twisted my stomach in knots. In spite of some pretty serious painkillers.

That tree of fear has been quietly dormant all these years as I have somehow, mercifully, escaped the dreaded question. But as of this fall, it's no longer one I can avoid - it has come to the forefront of my daughter's mind and I must face it head on, with courage and strength.

The question came to me innocently in late August over a Cherry Limeade...

"Mom, can you teach me how to do a cartwheel?"

NOOOOOOOOOOOO...

If you've known me for longer than five minutes - especially if you've walked 15 feet with me while talking - you know I am incredibly uncoordinated. I've said before that I was never a cheerleader and I wasn't kidding. Like, I wasn't 'almost a cheerleader', I really sucked. I actually tried out my freshman year of high school. It was a huge mercy to my self esteem that Simon Cowell-esq judging was not setting the tone for high school cheerleader tryouts. It would have been real ugly. They might have asked me if this were some kind of joke. Unfortunately for them, it was not.

If I'm perfectly honest, my bangs may have been the lynchpin that led to my complete failure. There's not enough Aussie Scrunch Spray in the world that can withstand a cartwheel in a crowded gym on a humid Houston afternoon and that gave me added angst. Looking back, it's a miracle that I didn't hurt someone. A miracle and a mercy.

So, when Sadie decided she wanted to try tumbling this fall instead of soccer, I was all for it. Obviously. Who with my un-athletic past wouldn't be? I only tried to subtly talk her out of it for two weeks - with bribing and begging. Unfortunately, we were on the heels of the Olympics and all the spunk and sass of the American team.

Thanks for nothing, Gabby.

After her first tumbling class, I was trying to help her, you know, kind of spot her - and accidentally almost died. As she flipped over, she kicked me in the face so hard I almost blacked out. Seriously, stars. I'm no medical doctor but I was 87% sure she'd broken my jaw. She started crying and frantically asking me if I was OK and I knew I needed to comfort her but, for a minute, I couldn't remember her name. Or mine. Or why I was on the ground. The upside is that I didn't think about my bangs for a second so at least there's been some growth there.

So here we are, a month in to tumbling 101 and it would appear Sadie is somewhat behind in her skillz. She's been instructed by her coach to practice her handstands and cartwheels at home which has made me rethink repainting the walls for the moment. She's a fighter and determined to get caught up with her class which is exactly opposite of what her momma would have done. My version might have looked a little more like a couch, cookie dough, and another episode of Friday Night Lights.

So, we're both learning. Our spunky optimistic kid is learning as other friends advance a little more quickly, that comparison really is a thief. In fact, the other day, after her buddy got moved up to a little more advanced group, she said through tears, "Mom, I'm working so hard and they are just pooing on my joy"! But through all the joy pooing, she's also learning some of life's great lessons - His timing is not always our timing, getting to celebrate a friend's victory is a privilege, and patience is often learned the hard way. I'm proud of that little redhead - she's one tough cookie.

And I've learned to give her a little more room. Roughly, 10 feet or so.

This is the day...

2012-09-13T08:25:00.000-05:00

Each year, through the generous gifts of our donors, Mercy Street is able to accomplish more of what the Lord has called us to do... to be used by God to spark Christ-honoring community restoration by engaging in mutually-transforming relationships with the future leaders of West Dallas.

Today until midnight, gifts over $25 have the opportunity to be matched through a partnership with the Communities Foundation of Texas.

Thank you for co-laboring with us!

Kids, kids, kids.

2012-09-09T23:05:00.000-05:00

It would appear by the dates on this blog that I had fallen off the face of the earth for about six weeks.
I did not, in fact, fall off the face of the earth although the temperatures made it feel as though our planet had been hurled out of orbit into spitting distance of the sun.

We've actually been pretty consumed with kids which is a much more fun but not necessarily more expensive alternative than being consumed by our pets. See previous posts.

We took 160 Mercy Street kids to Pine Cove for our fifth year of camp. Swimming with inner-city kids in lakes is one of my greatest joys. They start out all petrified and wigged out because they can't see their feet, the ground feels super slimy, and an occasional fish my nibble their legs but by the end of the week, they're blobbing each other sky-high, screaming and laughing the whole time.

And then we went back to school.

All four are settled in and, for the first time in nine years, they're all in school all day - every day. No more 1/2 days or early carpools so I can clean my house now for hours uninterrupted.

Huh. It sounded so much better in my head.

In this 'first day of school' picture, Graham was also supposed to be wearing his red sweater like the other two but we 'forgot it at home' which is a phrase oft-quoted by various members of our family. If we lived in the mid-13th century, I'm afraid it would be plastered across our Coat of Arms along with a picture of a mom with her head in her hands.

I'm 82% sure we would not have been knighted.

They're pretty cute anyway.

Speaking of pretty cute. Check this out.

It's been a long time since I've updated you on Dea. He's amazing. He's back in school at UTA and working almost full-time at a bank in downtown Dallas. The bank is involved with Mercy Street and, at an event last Spring, I had the opportunity to talk with the man Dea was scheduled to interview with. I could tell he was hesitant about the prospect of hiring an inner-city kid - not knowing exactly what to expect. I knew they would fall in love with Dea and he would extinguish any concern. They hired him at first as a part-time intern and then, three days into his job, he was approached by another department with an offer of more hours and more money 'cause, seriously, he's that awesome. He's blown us away with his resolve. From his work ethic, his determination, his responsibility, and his grades we really can't express how proud we are of him. He stayed with us for a short time again this summer between apartments and every morning, he'd be up early drinking coffee and would head out the door in his golf shirt and name badge. The young man who moved in at 15, a little unsure, confused and shy, who had lived a life at his young age that could have left him jaded and angry, rebelling - has grown into a young man of wisdom, kindness, and infinite potential. We are so thankful. The Lord's hand has been upon Him and we know that the trials he faced when he was young have been folded into the greater story we've had the privilege of seeing unfold first hand.

Like the rest of you, we're off to another great year. I can't wait to see the people and paths we'll cross along the way.

And by cross, I don't mean make real, real mad like my grandmother used to say.

Not as newsworthy as the Olympics.

2012-07-31T10:04:00.000-05:00

I apologize for taking so long to update the seven of you on Franklin's status.

I'm sure you've barely slept.

This would have come sooner but we've been packing and shipping the girls off to camp at Pine Cove which is awesome.

You know what would also be awesome? If every stinkin' year, I didn't get into my car the morning after drop-off and find some child's toothbrush. At this point in the week, while normal parents are checking the website for pictures of their campers, I'm checking their camper accounts to see if they've actually purchased another toothbrush. As of Tuesday morning, that would be a no.

Their dentist will be thrilled.

Also thrilling was the to-do list I found taped to my door when we got home. By it, you can see two things: 1. Franklin survived.
2. According to Sadie, I'm supposed to do nothing else this week but care for her turtle.
3. She can't spell dessert. Her teacher, come August 23, will also be thrilled.

That's actually three things because I like to keep this whole blog nutty and unpredictable.

After a week in Turtle ICU, Dr. Effie over at City Vet decided Franklin was ready to come home.
This is a picture of the repair of Franklin's plastron. Fun fact - Franklin is a girl. Who knew? Well, probably anyone who knows anything about turtles which, as of two weeks ago, ruled out our entire family. Now we feel like experts.

They actually drilled holes in her shell and secured it will sutures that will come out in a couple of months. Turtles are slow healers. My favorite line I heard at pick-up was from a vet tech who 'scrubbed in on Franklin's surgery.' "We think Franklin was someone's pet at one time because he's very comfortable around people. He actually let me hold his head while I administered oxygen." Oxygen.

My least favorite line was, "Now, will you be comfortable giving her shots?"

Um, no?

'Well, you see Mrs. Owner of a Box Turtle Who Has Recently Undergone Surgery Because Your Dog Thought she Was a Chew Toy, Franklin's going to need two intramuscular shots administered daily for two weeks. Pain killers and antibiotics. So, now's a fantastic time to learn.'

There are a few things I never thought I would hear myself say.
1. 'Another handful of Junior Mints? No thank you.'
2. 'Oh, I'd love to go to the party with you but I've got to cheer at the Homecoming Game.'
3. 'Yes children, we'll leave for the pool right after I give the turtle her shots.'

I had actually just given her his first round right before this picture was taken. Notice hergiving me the stink-eye? I retaliated by giving her a guilt trip about how, because of her being all irresistible to my dog , my carpets won't be getting cleaned.

I don't think turtles have a conscience (that word took me an embarrassingly long time to spell).

But, who's not giving me the stink-eye is this small child who, like her turtle friend, also does not care about my dirty carpets but instead cares only that I replenish Franklin's tomato supply before and after I take him for a walk. Twice daily. And give her a turtle-massage.

Oh, Brother.

2012-07-24T21:24:00.000-05:00

Last week, as part of his sabbatical, Trey skipped town and went to Vegas because nothing says Sabbath like Sin City.

Not really.

He actually spent a week at a beautiful monastery in Arkansas on a 'silent retreat'.

I just kept picturing him getting bored and trying to strike up a conversation with one of the Monks only to have the Abbot crossly hiss, "SHHHHHHHH! No talking"!

Didn't happen but it made me laugh all week thinking about it.

All the monks address one another as 'Brother (insert first name) which is what I've started calling Trey.

Brother Trey. We're full of whimsy like that.

On Sunday evening, before he left, Trey took the girls to a nearby lake for a little fishing because, well, that's how they roll. And of course they came home with a pet because what else is a husband supposed to do before he leaves for five days but bring home an exotic animal.

And by exotic, I mean turtle.

Box turtle to be specific.

New love of Sadie's life to be exact. She named him Franklin.

Now, I don't know a ton about turtles, except the volumes I haven't read in books, journals, and periodicals over the years, but I assumed - as far as actual pets were concerned - they were pretty bland.

Not Franklin. He was lively with spunk and personality! He almost never tucked into his shell and speed-walked around the lawn like, well, any other animal besides an actual turtle.

Did I mention Sadie's love for him?

L. O. V. E.

Well, we had done a pretty decent job caring for the little guy all week sans Head of House. We fed him berries, changed his water, kept him properly shaded and sunned, and let him walk around the yard supervised three times a day. (I love summer.)

So, Thursday night came and the kids were all getting ready for bed. And by 'getting ready for bed', I mean starting a movie, fixing a snack, and making up dance moves to "Payphone" by Maroon 5. Sadie was helping Dea do laundry.

And I had just sat down on the couch with a nice glass of wine and a book which always spells trouble. Will I never learn?

Usually, when I sit down for a millisecond, Scout is right next to me wanting me to scratch her ears. It's a thing we do that she, apparently, never grows tired of. Never.

But Scout was mysteriously absent.

My Spidey senses started tingling because she's a labradoodle so, really, really un-mysterious by definition and always, awkwardly present.

I ran to the backyard, where she never stays alone because, honestly, I think she's a little afraid of the dark. And the bugs. And the gunfire.

Not so scared tonight. She had found the ultimate distraction and he was encased in a hard, turtle shell.

Franklin.

I may have cussed.

I said may have but probably not because, remember, I am married to a man who was spending a week at a monastery in silent prayer and those kinds of wives do not cuss.

Whatever.

When I recovered the turtle from my dog, I could immediately see the two had not been equal partakers of 'playtime'. The turtle shell was cracked and there was blood. Reptile blood. Gag. Franklin had closed himself inside his shell and was obviously dead.

Insert child screams.

And tears by all my children except Dea because he tends to keep his head in situations like these. He may have made himself a burrito.

I spent the next hour soothing and singing four children to sleep which is no easy task because I have the singing voice of a howler monkey . It was especially tough for my youngest child who had just lost her 'Most Beloved Pet EVER'.

Remember, we'd had him five days - attachment is not her issue.

When everyone was finally settled down and restlessly sleeping, I went back outside to further inspect the damage. Franklin had not come out of his broken shell and there was more blood at the crack so I wrapped him in a grocery bag in preparation for the morning burial I knew we would be having.

All without Brother Trey.

The next morning, I went back down to transfer Franklin's corpse to a box so none of the kids would have to see the horror. Except, there was no Franklin.

I may have actually cussed here.

I looked all around frantically, convinced a rabid dog had entered our backyard in the middle of the night and made off with the body. I was dreading finding remnants. Remnants would have been real bad.

Instead, I found the empty grocery bag and immediately started thinking of how I was going to spin this one because I like myself some closure and my acorns didn't fall far from their momma tree.

Suddenly, my neighbor called out from across the street, "Hey! There's a little turtle over here that looks like he might have gotten hit by a car!"

NOT DEAD!!!

Franklin was alive and had walked out of my backyard, across the street and into my neighbors yard in an effort, I'm sure, to get as far away from my dog as possible.

HE LIVES!

Mr. Chan said his son used to have turtles when he was little and slapped a some duct tape on that broken shell and called it a day. And that would have been super-perfect except for a little thing called 'the internet' so, after I'd told the children and they danced and sang and apologized to Scout for wishing her a slow, painful dog death, I did some googling. Not my best idea ever.

You see, "turtles can survive with cracked shells but they are prone to infection without proper treatment so your only option is to get them to a vet ASAP" said every site I clicked on.

Awesome. That's just fantastic because I would SO MUCH rather spend the money I've been saving to have my carpets cleaned on a vet bill for a pet turtle we'd had for five days. FIVE DAYS!

And right about now, you're probably thinking - like Brother Trey was when he got home Friday night - that I should just let that turtle live out its last days in happiness, down by the lake, wounded and fending for itself.

I'm sorry, have we met?

And have you met Sadie?

Yeah, Big Talker. Why don't you try explaining to her how we're going to deny her pet turtle - the one we took from it's natural habitat and allowed to be attacked by our dog - some much needed medical attention because momma would rather have her carpets cleaned and turtles really don't qualify as pets, anyway. Go right ahead and try. I may pop some popcorn, sprinkle it with Junior Mints, pour myself an ice cold Diet Coke and watch just for fun.

Straight up, you wouldn't last 47 seconds.

So, as of this evening, Franklin has been under observation at the vet for four days. Every time I call, they all know my name and gush about what a fabulous turtle he is. How he's doing great and recovering and making friends. The vet - who knows the whole story and promises she's not making any money on this deal - actually asked to forward pictures of his injury to her graduate school professor/herpetology expert at the Austin Zoo because "if the injury is on a joint, we may need to do surgery".

Surgery.

Oh, Brother.

Old friends and...(much) older friends.

2012-06-27T13:52:00.000-05:00

Graham was born in February 2002, just 13 months behind his big sister giving our family three precious children under three years old.

I remember talking to my friend Carey ad nauseum about how in the world I was going to go to Target. Do I leave the kids in the car, grab a cart, and then load them up? What if it was hot and someone saw me and called CPS and they took my children away? If I took everyone out of the car, I would have a toddler, a barely walking 14 month old, and a baby in a carrier - how could I even make it to the front door? What if I parked by the cart return and then just loaded the kids there? What if my timing was off and they had just cleared the parking lot of carts - I'd be screwed? TOTALLY SCREWED!!!

I wholly believe now that sometimes, she would just set the phone down, go do a puzzle with her kids on the floor, start a load of laundry, and come pick the phone up thirty minutes later just as I was coming to the end of my monologue and saying 'TOTALLY SCREWED' in a screechy-high, panicky voice.

Truth.

Anyway, about this same time, we got a call from our church. A precious blind couple living in the US from Africa had just had a baby and they were wondering if I could help the new mom out with new mom type things. By the above paragraph about the aneurism I almost gave myself going to Target , it would appear that my only qualification to be of any help was my actual ability to birth small children.

For the next year or so, I got to hang out with Afi and Godfried as we nursed babies (but not for inappropriately long or inappropriately short periods of time so as not to wage some stupid Mommy War), changed diapers, worked on sleeping schedules - oh, for the babies, too - and did laundry.

We baptized the little munchers together...

and celebrated their first birthdays.

Side note: Here is Trey and I looking young and spry at Godfried's birthday party.

And, just for fun, I stuck in this picture from my 40th birthday weekend. You know what the difference is? If you guessed Trey's t-shirt you're wrong. I think he might be wearing that bad boy under his jacket. The difference is my favorite couple - decent lighting and photoshop.

Moving on...shortly after he turned two, Godfried's family moved out of the country and we hadn't seen them in years. Godfried came back this week to visit friends in Dallas so the kids and I got to hang out with him and swim and eat 10 popsicles each thanks to the Steele's.

The kids were so small when Godfried moved away, they barely remembered each other but, like old friends, they laughed and played all morning.

And speaking of old friends, Carey turned 40 this weekend so we celebrated with a little G.N.O. here in Dallas. G.N.O. is short for Girls Night Out, not gynecological appointment like I initially thought. She likes to remind me every 48 seconds or so how I'm older than she is by a good 6 months. And that I wasn't a cheerleader. I think it's payback for having to listen to me agonize about going to Target.

This isn't a picture of the whole crew but the pictures we have of everyone are by the pool which, for some of us (and by 'us', I mean 'me'), stretch the capabilities of both decent lighting and Photoshop.

Which both become more and more necessary when celebrating old friends. Some, older than others...

Back from the Land of Good Hair

2012-06-20T23:49:00.001-05:00

After three weeks on the road, we're home and settling back into the swing of summer. It looks kind of like this: drive kids to the pool, apply sunscreen, rinse, repeat.

But, we are rested and refreshed - it was a fabulous time.

All in all, we drove about 3700 miles through Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and Texas and got all but four states in the license plate game, three if we blow off Washington D.C. like I voted to because I knew it was just going to cause angst.

We saw a lot of really beautiful places.

Totally straight up, I didn't see that place because it was really hot that day and Sadie thought she was going to "re-hydrate" so I stayed behind and took she and Olivia on the driving tour of Arches National Park. Just as good, only with Diet Coke.

We took a LOT of pictures but oddly enough, very few of all of us turned out. Perhaps it has something to do with my precious angels and their new little habit of throwing West Side signs, peace-out signs, or fake-mooning the camera every time we take a picture.

Tee's not even pointing at anything real in this one, he's just trying to annoy me.

Getting everyone to smile, look mostly normal, and not pretend their in a gang where street-cred is key is getting more and more difficult. This one is actually almost there except that Graham is now tall enough to cut off 1/2 my face off with his unkempt hair. I'll take it.

Speaking of hair, it is amazing to me how much the humidity effects us Texas gals. For three glorious weeks, I had no frizz, no fly aways, and no weird puffiness. As a fun trade off, I had skin like an alligator and perpetually chapped lips which, when combined, made me look super-not-hot.

What was hot, though, was the trip through the desert to Arizona. Remember my desert fear? I desperately needed something to distract me on that four hour leg, so I suggested to the the kids they might recreate the YouTube viral video of the Harvard Baseball Team dancing to "Call Me Maybe".

Seen it? Cracked me up.

'Alright, Momma, we'll take that challenge and conquer it in only 8 takes and one bathroom break'.

Good news is that riding backwards filming your children and listening over and over and over and over to that kind of lyrical artistry is a hands-down cure to desert fear. It may promote other fears, but desert fear is definitely not one of them.

Bigger.

2012-06-10T14:58:00.001-05:00

We're on leg three of our family vacay and week two of Trey's sabbatical.

Estes Park and Crested Butte were beautiful and cool and the hiking didn't make me die which I'm considering a bonus.

Although we saw deer and elk daily, none of the kids were able to claim the $8 prize for spotting a bear. They did ask what they'd get if they were actually attacked by a bear and so, as a group, we decided that would definitely be worth an extra $10.

Although it seemed totally legit at the time, now, driving through the desert and gaining clarity, it might not have been fair compensation.

Speaking of desert, this part of the drive has made Trey and I realize for the first time we share one more thing in common - desert fear. Perhaps we've seen too many movies where people are stranded in the desert with no gas, water, or sunscreen above 15 SPF. Anyone seen Brad Pitt's movie, Babel? Lady struggling to get out of the desert with two small children, no water, and wearing pantyhose an uncomfortable shoes? It's become one of our worst nightmares.

We have seen some pretty beautiful things, though. Utah being no exception.

A recurring theme with what we've seen is how much bigger everything is - and that's coming from a Texas girl. From mountains, to white waters, to gorges and canyons, they are so much bigger they make us look tiny in comparison. The Lord's creation has astounded us, dazzled us, and given us new perspective on how big He is and how infinitely small we are.

And to get a glimps of His immensity and not also be certain of His goodness would indeed be terrifying. But as we've gotten to see the glory in His creation, the Lord has been equally gracious to show our family His goodness on this adventure.

Perhaps especially by preventing the aforementioned bear sighting/attack payout.

In his hand are the depths of the earth;

the heights of the mountains are his also. (Psalm 95:4 ESV)

Sabb-aaaahhhhh-ticle

2012-05-26T11:47:00.000-05:00

With the rest of Texas, we ended our school year yesterday with pizza,
water balloons, swim parties, and what's soon to become our eau de
summer - SPF 45.

It's been a great year - busy, challenging, rewarding. And last week,
I officially passed my baton as PTF President over to my dear friend,
Katy, just in time for the tidal waves of emotion that have become my
close companions for the last five days.

Those waves have mostly manifested themselves in weeping fits over
Sadie's last day of 2nd grade and subsequent last 1/2 day of school on
Mondays and Fridays forEVER. And seeing my oldest three venture into
the middle-school hang out at church as they make their way into a
season of life I like to call Horribly Awkward.

I've been fun at parties.

Trey, on the other hand, is awesome! Or, spent and in need of some
recharging. Either one, you pick.

I'll give you a hint - its the latter.

Like most who do ministry full time, after 10 years, his soul is weary
and he's wise enough to know he needs to take a break.

So, with the blessing of his Board of Directors, and a staff who has
been hand-picked by the Lord for such a time as this, he is taking two
months off this summer to rest, let Jesus fill his soul, stain the
fence, and fix that banister that came off the wall in a freak
bet-between-brothers-gone-wrong-incident.

Did you see that? Did you see how I subtly slipped my honey-do list
in there. Yeah, I've been practicing for weeks. I've actually gotten
pretty good. He barely even notices - or totally notices.

Whatever.

Actually, we're going to spend some time pouring into our marriage and
our family. We'll begin with the son who told a friend of mine last
week that he, "just wasn't a 'yes, ma'am' type of guy".

Huh.

Perhaps he'd rather become a 'livin' in a van down by the river' type
of guy instead - made exponentially more difficult by the fact that he
can't drive and he only has $7.64 to his name and therefore couldn't
even buy a van/house, let alone riverfront property.

And with that, we're off to begin Sabbatical 2012. We're headed to
Colorado for a couple of weeks and then down to see my dad and
step-mom in Scottsdale.

We're praying for renewal and as quiet a rest as can be had in a
suburban, four children, and the iconic music - both beloved and
behated - of One Direction.

Meanwhile, Dea is holding down the fort at home and learning the joy
of dog breath early in the morning because he's all collegiate and
workin' and responsible. Bless him. We love him.

Words spoken.

2012-04-09T11:51:00.002-05:00

Brandon is a cool kid. He's polite and when he was much younger, loved to come hang out at the house and jump on the trampoline with Graham. He would swing by just about every day, have a snack, play Wii, and hang out with me in the kitchen while I cooked dinner. Sometimes, he'd stay and tell us his dreams of playing pro basketball around the dinner table. And he actually listened when I told him broccoli would make him taller and ate every bite.

Sometimes, he'd ask for a ride after dinner because it was dark and his granny didn't want him walking home alone. Outside his front door, waiting for him, his cat would almost always be pacing. Brandon would pick him up, scratch his head, and wave goodnight.

Over the years of living in West Dallas, we saw a little less of Brandon. He was certainly around but spent more time playing basketball than hanging out with younger friends. We'd see him riding his bike, always balancing a basketball on his hip. He was really good, too. I guess he kept eating his broccoli because he grew like crazy and everyone was sure he'd be playing college ball one day.

Then, last Fall, on the way to the court at a park near his house, Brandon pulled a .22 out of his pocket and shot another kid seven times.

Of all the kids we've known over the years, he was certainly one of the last we'd ever suspect of being violent like that - not even a little bit. Aside from getting a little hostile on the court, and fouling an opponent in the final moments of a game, I never saw a side of him that might lead where it did.

Brandon's victim lived and made a full recovery, then his granny moved him back to Louisiana where she believed he'd be safer. Brandon was sent to prison - looks like he won't be playing college ball after all.

Mercy Street's Associate Executive Director drove south to visit him a couple of weeks ago and the information he came back with was heartbreaking and frustrating and echoed countless documentaries and news expose's on bullying.

The only conclusion authorities could make as to why Brandon shot his peer was that the kid constantly, unrelentingly, sometimes visciously scored on him until one afternoon, he snapped.

"Man, you got no game."

"Your hair so nappy".

"Those shoes look like wookies".

"You suck".

"You're ugly".

"You got nothin."

"You're broke."

"Your house is ghetto".

"Your momma's a whore".

Brandon was wrong. He wasn't justified in pulling the trigger and is now in prison because the judge didn't think so either. The kids asked about Brandon the other night and we were desperately trying to impress upon them the power their words have.

So, when I ran into my friend, Louisa, at a track meet days later, and she started telling me about a bible study she'd just heard on Proverbs 18:21, I knew the Lord was trying to drive home something that's been rattling around in my heart for a long time. He's kinda pushy that way.

Proverbs 18:21 says "The tongue has the power of life and death..."

It doesn't say the power of hurt feelings or warm fuzzies - it says life and death. God don't play.

So, my problem and consequently the trait I may have passed onto my children is this; they come from a long line of sarcasm. And by long line, I mean me. It's actually a combination of sarcasm and trying to be sincerely funny which works for me about 72% of the time. The other 28% usually falls flat, hurts feelings, and gets me kicked out of book clubs. And, yes, I just did math.

Louisa was encouraging me that, with ears tuned to listen, I would learn to hear myself and others speak either death or life into situations, circumstances, or people. Day 1, I listened, really listened, to every word and the volume of death spoken was staggering. I heard my own kids squawking at one another just like Brandon's friend.

"You suck at basketball".

"You FAILED your math test? Hahahahahaha"!

"I can do that better than you."

"I'm smarter, faster, etc., etc., etc. than you'll ever be".

And then, I heard my own words speaking death into situation upon situation with small comments of cynicism, hopelessness, and bitterness. However small, they stung my ears and I had to make several phone calls to friends asking forgiveness. Of course I called right during dinner when they'd be distracted and quick to forgive but that's not important right now.

So, we're working on words over at the Hill house and it's not an easy task, mostly because my children are stubborn little punks. SEE, THERE I GO AGAIN! Life, Melissa, life. Lord, help me. Seriously, though, just like leaving backpacks and shoes in the middle of the kitchen floor, old habits are hard to break especially when our ears and hearts have become dull to adolescent banter and cut-downs. Because we are our kids' most influential presence, I'm seeing how my own words, even in the great name of all things funny, fail to speak life and instead speak slow death.

And we're praying for Brandon and the other young man. That these boys so full of potential and future and hope, would know the One who seeks and saves and restores the years the locusts have eaten. Christ's words are life-giving, redeeming, and pierce the darkest cells - both the cinder ones in South Texas, and the felt one's in Louisiana.

Close to home. (or Why friends don't let friends read their blogs.)

2012-03-22T19:58:00.004-05:00

The morning Olivia was born, I woke up at, like, 2 a.m. because I had a few little cramps and probably needed to eat something. Obviously the forty-two pounds I had already gained weren't going to just sustain themselves? My late night BFF, Conan, was on and he was finding a way to make me laugh in the middle of my 10-days-before-she's-due, pregnancy hell. I was maybe a little uncomfortable and it's possible I was a smidge testy. And, although Conan usually can cheer me up and make me feel better, something was amiss.

The cramping was getting stronger and maybe a little more consistent. By the time I finally had the good sense to actually use a wristwatch, my what had become contractions were about two minutes apart.

Awesome.

So, after I called my doctor, woke up Trey, gathered my things and put on some lipstick because, duh, if I were really in labor, someone was going to take a picture, we swept up our slumbering 20 month old, Tee, and whisked him off to Miss Carey's house.

Now, people, Carey is a happily married woman but for some reason, my children have always called her this. Perhaps its because she's so young and beautiful. In comparison, even my own children call me 'Grandma'.

Anyway, they were at the door for Tee before sunrise, ready at a moments notice to help us through the crazy.

And it's been that way ever since. Our oldest boys are two months apart and all our siblings have been fast friends as long as they can remember. We've walked with one another through lots of hilarity, and deep theological questions, and trials that have threatened to chew us up and spit us out. Carey's a cheerleader to my cautiousness and has been a faithful sister and friend.

So, when three weeks ago, I got a late-night call that her oldest son, Luke, had been diagnosed with bone cancer, it was worse than getting jabbed in the throat. I don't really know what getting jabbed in the throat feels like, but I'm pretty sure this tops it.

Dangit.

Life has a way of doing that, doesn't it? Not only does it not stop, life opens up a can of whoop-ass and reminds me of what I already know. That, in a phone call, or a drive home, or a diagnosis, tomorrow doesn't always look just like today only with slightly different weather. Giant, unforeseen, storms come, and rock us to the core.

Our faithful Father, though, has already begun to make beauty from the ashes. He has brought His people out in droves to love and to care for this precious family and show us all how He binds up the brokenhearted, He gives strength to the weary, and has made them, us all, more than conquerors. He has given joy unspeakable in the midst of it all and great, great hope. Hope for Luke's healing and the abiding surety of this cool, 13 year old's salvation.

They've set up a Caring Bridge site and I can't encourage you enough to go visit. You'll be uplifted by Carey's honesty and winsome way of telling their story.

http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/lukegidden

and...speaking of honesty. Carey's never really been a big reader of my blog. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I've told her everything before I write it and redundancy is so 1992. Anywho, so when she asked me to come buzz Luke's hair off before it started to really fall out, I counted it a privilege.

I just maybe didn't mention what I had once done to my dog. Twice.

Let's just keep that between us - for Luke.

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.