Birthday Wishes

Today I am going to depart from my cleanse updates, I acknowledge that my 21 day writing streak ended about 2 days in--I should've known better.  However today I am pausing and dedicating this post to two of my best friends.  One whose birthday passed almost two months ago and one whose birthday is today.  This is the second year in a row where finances are extremely tight to say the very least and sadly not even my husband received a gift either year.  Last year I began writing poetry again after a decade long hiatus and I wrote this poem with both Libby and Tasha in mind following one of the darkest times in my life.  These two women have been unshakingly loyal and honest for years and my plan was and is to create something beautiful for them containing this poem and send it to them for their birthdays.  However life and all it's details and pace has left these projects unfinished and on the very back burner in reality.  Tash and Lib, I love you both more than you can know and today I, in my meager humanity, honor you.  Thank you for the women that you are and for who you are in my life.  Happy Birthday!

Sister

Standing on this rocky ground changed eyes

seeing what is being found. Staring back

down that twisted path, crooked is this traveled way.

Still, gazing on that hazy road you have helped  to carry this load.

My God has given you to me and so gratitude does overflow.

You must know that through rocks in the valleys

I have tread, the soul Christ placed inside your heart

has given strength as mine bled.

Truth spoken echos softly as a whisper

Reminding me He desires for us all to prosper.

Sister. Paths of joy and miles of sorrow

a ribbon you wind through these canyons

declaring to me His hope of tomorrow.

Hear these words that you have blessed your sister in these darkest hours.

Shown His face as the world turned sour, strengthened faith

and shown a light on His redeeming power.

Today I feel that it is gone, the heaviness has not won.

Darkness has vanished you see the troubled heart has been set free.

This road though hard--worth what He's creating in me.

As I move past this gnarled road

I cannot forget how your spirit reflects His face.

Sister. Your voice forever echos his grace.

Mother's Day

         I’d like to thank the Davis County Public School system for a wonderful Mother’s Day.  For providing 3 out of 4 of my children with handcrafted, thoughtful gifts that will be cherished for years to come--if I remember to store them away in a safe place.  I will admit that Mother’s Day for me has been an interesting, supposed Me centered, holiday seemingly contrived by the greeting card, flower, and chocolate industries to guilt men and children into spending money on the mothers in their lives.  The practical part of me resents this holiday the way I resent most holidays for the overtly materialistic, obligatory and detached way we as Americans enter into holidays in general.  I’m not a big fan of guilt being the driving force for attention or gifts.  Now don’t get me wrong, I love to see fresh cut flowers provided for me and packages wrapped up in a beautiful and creative way just for me, it’s just hard for me to get super excited about something that seems obligatory.

Most years as Mother’s Day approaches I have been filled with thoughts like ‘it’s not a big deal’ and ‘it’s just another day’ truly, but as the day arrives and it is actually treated more or less like an ordinary day a little bit of sadness enters my heart and feelings overflow of wanting to be celebrated for this damn hard job that I have been dedicated to for 12 years now.  I want my morning to begin with a chorus of adorably dressed male-folk surrounding my bed with delicious coffee and breakfast that took way too much time and effort to make.  I want, at every turn, these same males praising my every move highlighting--just for a day--how their lives would not be the amazing lives that they are without me.  I want no arguing, complaining or strife on any level and I want gifts--books, drawing pads, jewelry and expensive clothing.  You see as much as I resent Mother’s Day, I really do want the commercialized and contrived holiday images I see on T.V. for the weeks leading up to that day.  But the reality is that will never happen, for a variety of reasons most of which surround finances and the fact that our lives (Joe’s and mine) are filled up with the day to day--feeding, clothing and nurturing to the best of our ability these boys that have made us parents.  I’m sure I could put it all on Joe to make the day fabulous, however that would mean that on Father’s Day I would have to do the same thing for him and I won’t for the exact reasons he doesn’t--we’re just too busy living life.

So through the years I have come to accept that the public educational system my children are blessed to have access to, will be the one’s supplying my gifts on Mother’s Day.  I have received very cute, tear jerking poems, fake plants, real plants that end up dying within a week and wooden jewelry with gaudy plastic jewels glued on them--along with a variety of other gifts.  The thing that I love about these gifts mostly is the insight they give me on what my children’s perspective is on me.  They usually all make some sort of statement about where we are in life and who I am in my kid’s lives.  Typically it is I who has to read between the lines and ask questions about the creative process, etc.  But this year was a little different because the 5th grade project that my oldest was required to complete was pretty big.  It demanded dedication, time and effort in a creative way that, in the end, would have, could have spoke to his entire year being a Fifth Grader.  A culmination of sorts, comb bound and containing 23 individual works of art, that would reflect the art education he is receiving.

The basic idea of the project is that the cover and every other page had a beautiful and time consuming string art design that was accompanied by a poem, prompted by the teacher, but an original work by the student.  As I admired the cover containing a beautiful butterfly and then turned to the apple which marked Fall, the pumpkin, you get the idea.  But as I turned over the pumpkin I saw a blank page followed by three more blank pages, and I began to chuckle realizing that the year started off strong and then priorities lapsed.  After the four blank pages there was a clover, followed by a kite, flower and the grand finale--the author page with a circle line design framing Solomon’s picture and the “about the author” section.  We all had a little laugh as Solomon sighed saying, “I’m so glad that is over, now I don’t have to stay in at free-time any more!”  Basically, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom, glad that pressure is off!”  Another Mother’s Day passed and it was beautiful having my family around most of the day and being able to share it with my own mom.

However, Monday morning as I flipped through the book a second time I realized that all the blank art pages did have poems attached, which is when I also realized that they were original and written by Solomon.  They started off easy and prompted but then I got to the poem on blank page #3, it was untitled and read:

  

My mom signed me up for tennis

I really hated it

I didn’t do so well

I went to my first match

I did horrible

We did back hand drills

The match was embarrassing

Thanks mom

Wow! uuhhh.... hum... ok...??

Then I turned to the page containing the clover, it said:

If I had a four leaf clover I’d make a wish for you...

A full tank of gas

Boys that wouldn’t fight

A hot tub

A house that would clean itself

And insurance

That’s how much I love you!

I mean who wouldn’t want a never ending full tank of gas, children that didn’t fight, a hot tub and a house that would clean itself?   That would be great!  But I was taken aback by the mention of insurance, insurance.  That statement highlighted, in an instant, our current state of chaos which is: climbing out of a really tough situation slowly and going without what most people consider basic necessities.  Thanks to public assistance our children are covered, but Joe and I are currently uninsured and have been for over a year.  I guess I could go on about the health care crisis or be angry at corporations (namely the one my husband worked for, that dropped us like flies at our lowest point), or the cost of health care or ObamaCare, but that’s not the point.  My struggle is that this struggle has trickled down into the psyche of my children and in that moment I realized that they feel the struggle and put it into their world, even in their poetry.  

It made me a little sad that Solomon wishes he could provide insurance for our family and that he realizes the importance of it and the sacrifice we have made.   I wish that the dream of what Mother’s Day could be or, even the reality of people trying desperately to make it a special day, would erase the real struggle of being a parent.  But it doesn’t.  Being a parent is hard on every level and there are men and women out there every day trying their hardest to make life great for their kids.  Having children means making unselfish decisions and living with the consequences of our humanity--which shows up in poetry on Mother’s Day.  Just being an average, ordinary parent with average, ordinary kids is *bleeping* hard.  Your guilt and regret is real when you realize your shortcomings.  So here is to all of those mom’s and dad’s out there struggling today, thank you on behalf of your children who probably will never fully realize your struggle whatever it is, even if it is only guilt about tennis lessons.

Flesh

         So I freaked out yesterday.  Something that if my husband witnessed, he would refer to for many years to come as "an episode".  I've had a few episodes in our twelve and a half years of marriage, and from time to time he likes to reference them in casual conversation--something I don't so much appreciate.  Probably because it is my flesh at it's worse and I kind of pride myself on maintaining my cool in crisis situations, which is probably my first mistake.  You see my mom has had some pretty serious health issues which has added a lot to my already full plate.  It's been somewhat horrifying to confront the thoughts that run through my head as I get a glimpse of my future taking care of an aged parent sooner than I would have expected.  She is going to be fine, but the truth of the matter is that I selfishly want her to be fine and independent forever--a reality that doesn't exist.  She will get older and I will be the one to care for her.  On top of that I have a husband that has struggled with chronic health issues for seven years, and when his debilitating symptoms rear their ugly head, I will occasionally have horrible thoughts of being alone and raising my four boys alone while the man I love more than anything wastes away in a chair.
           Consequently, as those two very blaring realities collided while Lucas "the Freak" dog was being entirely too naughty and the 'to do' list juxtaposed to the ongoing bank balance crisis was spinning in my head, tears streaming down my face I sat in my car insulated by glass and a nice big garage-- and screamed.  I mean I really lost it.  I guess I was screaming at God.  In that moment I very much wanted Jesus to appear on the hood of my car.  I wanted physical contact with Him, to see what I envision as a sweet calm expression looking back at me.  I wanted Him to grab me by the hand and gently lead me inside and heal all the brokenness.  That of course did not happen so I continued on to the grocery store to pick up some prescriptions and a few ingredients for the cooking project I had planned on doing.
        Now, I am not an ambitious cook.  I like to cook and at one point, early in my marriage, I had a small obsession with Martha Stewart and Williams-Sonoma.  That has faded as the number of my children has grown and the size of my expendable income has shrunk, but recently I have had my desire to create something more that fancier Macaroni & Cheese or a healthier chicken nugget grow.  Mostly because I have been surrounded by people who truly love to cook.  Not only do they love to cook but they love me and my family even though we are almost always in some sort of needy state that can't be fixed.  This crazy conglomeration of humanity has poured themselves out onto my family in a way I could have never imagined.                
       So before the episode occurred yesterday morning I had planned on making Potato Knishes after being inspired by a friend who has a very cool food blog.  You see, she and I both have husbands rooted in Judaism and she made some Matzo Ball soup to honor that side of her family, her post made me realize how much I miss good Jewish food.  Living back East there is not a shortage of great Jewish Deli's and my mother-in-law is a great cook, but the Beehive State is somewhat lacking in this category of fine food.
      I know this story is a little round about, but I do have a point and that point is that even though I had not recovered from my "episode" fully as I began to prepare these tasty little 'buns' filled with potatoes, as I peeled the potatoes, cooked the onions, kneaded the dough and prepared the egg wash I felt renewed.  I pressed my frustration into that dough and imagined the ancestors of my husband and their suffering.  I connected to, in real time, what I have been studying in Exodus.  God calling His people, pulling them out of their suffering, not taking it away fully but still calling them His.  Giving them His law and His way of doing things and allowing them to be apart of it regardless of their flesh, their episodes and their doubt.  I was comforted by the promise that in my messed up, all to human state, that I too am called by Him.  I made comfort food.

        I still wish Jesus would've descended
into my kitchen, that I could have poured him some $9 wine and served him a delicious Knish with gravy and cried.  But instead my boys came home from school and gobbled them all up--a little to my surprise.  Yesterday sucked on one level, I felt totally out of control, my mind went to dark places but my cries were heard and prayers were answered, stories for another day.
For more amazing info on amazing food, especially local SLC check out the Vintage Mixer.http://www.thevintagemixer.com/
  

Resurrection Wonder

I wonder how it felt to see Jesus on that dusty road to Emmaus?

To say you knew Him when He walked among us?

To see Him whole and perfect standing on that road

I wonder about and envy, those who got to see

To hear His voice and see His face--the man from Galilee.

I wonder how it felt to see Jesus, to share some fish and wine with God?

To touch His hands and see His side and hear Him say those words.

They say, that even then, some did not believe.

Do you think He touched them gently and His love they did receive?

Did Mary weep and hug her friend knowing it was true?

That God did so love the world and chose to enter in,

To put on flesh and be betrayed because of our own sin.

I wonder if birds sang more beautiful than before?

If the sun shone brighter on that desert lakeside shore?

If hands did grasp and hearts did gasp as He called them all his friends.

Do you think they even thought about this New Kingdom lens? 

I wonder how you respond to such amazing love?

To understand that God did leave his throne above, 

To walk down that broken road and carry His own cross,

To die for you and pay the price so you would not be lost.

Does it make you want to love your neighbor and with those you don’t agree?

I pray our eyes are open to those we do not see.

I pray that from our eyes all those scales would soon fall

Our hearts would change, our minds renewed---to give our love to all.

Laundry

I want to create.

To be creative like Picasso or Bach or Dave

or the guy in Times Square who bends

Forks into dragons.

I want to create.

The unquenched desire almost chokes me--

driven back into the belly

and I realize that I have created

children.

Children who need stuff like food

and clean clothes and love.

And while I steal away a moment

to let energy out on tablets of white

and blue lines Owen, three year old

Super Boy in Batman underwear

is riding my Ugg boot like a horse.

And I fight back the frustration

of responsibility and chuckle

at this creation.

While I day-dream about building

beautiful objects with my hands,

Judah is mad that life isn't turning out

the way he planned, that being five

sucks and nothing is fair. I nod

that in fact that is the truth, life

is not fair and we don't get what we want

because we are empty.

And I want to create.

To make lanterns out of wine bottles

and poems that give life or perspective

to those a few steps behind.

I want to pour out something beautiful

that is God made and be filled.

But Owen wants to help and be a part.

To chew gum with me. "Mom, are you

going to get me some?" And he sings

a tune and doesn't stop talking.

And motherhood seeps in, and he licks

my finger to draw me out of my page

with his saliva and gooey tongue.

I want to create.

Truth is, I have created people

which seems ordinary.

And Judah protests the injustice of life

with his backpack on his head.

And while he confronts his loss

BBQ flavored potato chips

make everything better and as salty-

sweet crunch permeates the room,

I need to do laundry.

I have a five year old son whom I love more than words can express, but several times throughout the day for the past four years I've mostly wanted to throw him out the window. Judah is a sweet, loving, funny boy that makes me have visions of freaking out the way Steve Martin freaks out in all the scenes he freaks out in. At times he makes me want to detach my body from my soul, but there is something about that boy, a sweetness that could almost be described as innocent--a beautiful wonderment that overtakes his expression, and is probably his saving grace. The knowledge and memory of his potential sweetness has saved him in the moments when he is lying face down on the driveway squealing a slightly inaudible stream of sound at the realization that, yet again, the world does not orbit himself and we won't be going to Wendy's for lunch either. Again.

Having your hardest child be the third boy in a line of 4 boys is somewhat unnerving. In many ways you've "been there, done that" all too often, maybe a cockiness sets in as having babies becomes a familiar event. Boy number three is a breeze, you would think--but I have come to believe that being boy number three out of four can be a sucky place. Rarely do you get anything new--Judah lives for anything new, he's even begun to settle for new clothes filling the want void in his soul. He knows that I am way more likely to give in to something needed and practical, he is fully aware that we are on a very tight budget, so now he has developed a highly encouraged fashion sense (encouraged by me)--and he's quite good at putting together a wardrobe. His look is a little punk mixed in with a preppy's love for a good collar.

So tonight as I snuck up into his room to say goodnight one last time, I realized that he had hidden under his covers with two glowing lights reading a classic compilation of Dick and Jane. My mother-in-law gave my eleven year old this book when he was learning to read and he hated it. My 8 year old had similar feelings, although for very different reasons, of course. But Judah has just begun reading and he can read this book, and he loves it. Listening to his quiet phonetic stutters spilling out from his outpost on the top bunk was almost too much for my heart to take. One thing that being number three is: one word-- determined. And in that candid moment hearing him reading on his own I felt him slipping away a little bit more. Slipping in to a big boy. He is going to grow up and stop licking things when he's mad or melting into a puddle of limbs and groans when disappointment comes and when the day comes when he pushes himself out the window of my shelter I think I might miss these days.

Sitting Here Now

As we ring in the New Year and decompress from the 2010 holiday season I feel the need, as it seems most people do this time each year, to contemplate the past year and project my wishes for the new year. This is the second year in a row that we didn't send out a holiday card with the accompanied letter, which I mourn a bit. I love receiving the annual updates from my friends and to be honest I love writing and sending one too. It's cathartic in a way to purge each year on paper, as if releasing these thoughts somehow put them to rest and archive them for future generations. This time last year we were spending our time with dear friends in Los Osos, CA reeling from leaving NJ and really not knowing what the next week would bring let alone the following year. It seems as though a lifetime has passed and numerous unexpected, even completely blind-siding events have taken place in the 12 short months since--almost too much to take in. There are days when I can hardly bare the thought of some of the details and yet I am unbelievably comforted by God's hand and provision in the same breath.

So as I put the epic year of 2010 to rest I thought a personal update would be nice, if only for myself. As we embark on the second decade that this 21st century is handing us I am, if nothing else, unbelievably grateful for the people that God has put in my life. Mostly my husband--I won't gush because that would be unbearable even for me. But the truth is that he is my rock. My sun truly rises and sets with him, not in a codependent enabling sick way, but I have an admiration and love for him that I am sure is nauseating for some however it is honest, true, and seemingly undying.

The other people in my life that bring me to my knees daily in prayer are my children. They are all amazing blessings and have hearts that I covet. All four of my boys are fantastic little men in the making with great weaknesses and great talents. I never in my wildest dreams imagined that I would mother four boys. In fact when I was told that our fourth child was a boy I cried for a week. As Owen grows from a lovable and life-changing baby into a little boy my heart sings praises daily for his life being so unexpectedly intertwined with mine. I no longer have a baby in the house, something that has not been true for 11 years. Some days I imagine another angel gracing us with their presence, but most days I am horrified by the thought of having another person to make straight their path and guide them on this mission of life.

Having four kids is a lot. It's a lot of details to remember as life moves at an irritatingly fast pace. This fall I have been overwhelmed by all that it takes to do my job well, and even doing it well means that I forget to pick up Judah early on half day Fridays because I don't even realize that it's Friday already. Luckily my children are full of grace and forgiveness or else the guilt trips I would often take would be to self deprecating. Imagining their futures on the couch of some head shrinker is hard enough on good days, on days when I am suddenly possessed by a demon from the underworld and lose my temper because of spilled water, I can't bear the thought of the damage it might cause. Being a mom is, at all times, a practice in unbelievable patients and amazing kitchen skills.

So being the completely in control person that I am, always calculating and making lists to improve my productivity I researched for a few days before I committed to take on another life form. His form is currently a 65 pound, 8 month old Weimaraner who is wonderful at home due to intense overly time consuming training, however cannot control his impulse to run a thousand miles an hour, dragging me from his 3 foot leash, toward two very small dogs who are protected by a chain link fence--his face now knows to look out for chain link fences. I was completely naive at the amount of dog training I would demand of myself and those around me. Lucas is now my 5th child--oops!--and I love him more than I ever thought I could love an animal. Big jerk.

We are also now dwelling with my mother in a wonderful home that she has provided graciously for our family while we regroup and heal our souls and bodies. I live in the town that I grew up in and spent most of my late teens, twenties and early thirties trying to escape. The irony is fierce and around every corner I expect to see some slightly recognizable face. We love living in Bountiful, it truly fits us to a T. Being in the mountains again has brought me a peace that was forgotten in my attempts to find myself. It's interesting how returning home really does connect you to a part of yourself that must be nestled in your DNA--for the longest time I ran from this illusive section of my being and having returned to this place I am comforted by its familiarity.

I'm no longer in the business of trying to author my future, our struggles have become a part of who we are and they live amongst us like ghosts that follow us around from place to place. They are at times scary and definitely sneak up on us, but as we have begun to recognize their face they play a part in this dance, ebbing and flowing in and out of our lives. I have learned about the fellowship of the suffering that it is real and although unbelievably hard, changing and softening my soul.

My hope for 2011 is to continue to heal. I plan on running a marathon if not a few. I want to be more attentive to the people with whom I come in contact with daily, therefore his will be my last post on Facebook. If you enjoy this blog follow it please and pass it on--this is my status update from now on. I wish you all a Happy New Year!

When someone says, "gimme a dozen..." usually they are referring to eggs or donuts or roses, things that you desire a lot of. When referring to stuff, having a dozen of something implies that you have a lot of it. If I were to have a dozen pairs of jeans that might be considered a large quantity of jeans for one person, I however believe that you can never have too many pairs of jeans-- but I have an obsession with denim. A dozen kids however would be an extraordinary number of children, excessive and weird even, to most humans. My point is that a dozen of something is usually perceived as a lot. Yesterday Joe and I celebrated a dozen years of marriage, that's a lot of marriage. It's 114 months of marriage, 4,745 days of marriage, we've been married for 113,880 hours--it's a lot of I love you's and I forgive you's

It seems like a lot of years when you pull back and break it down, but in real time it has been fleeting, and as I pull out my magnifying glass and study the details each of those years holds, my mind is blown by it all. All the unplanned events including our 4 children, 2 moves across country, countless hours in the emergency room and sitting next to hospital beds, graduate school, bad haircuts (given and received), gaining and losing close friends, gaining and losing weight, and finding that together we can do anything.

This journey of a dozen years has held countless tears and overwhelming sorrow but at the same time countless hugs, kisses and overwhelming love. The man I married 12 years ago yesterday is still my very best friend and the one I long to be with every day that God will allow. He still makes me laugh harder than anyone ever could and is stronger than anyone I know. He saved me from myself and showed me who God is. Loves me and lifts me daily, is forever my shoulder to cry on, indulges my Dave Matthews obsession and my love of denim.

So today as we enter our 13th year of marriage and the beginning of yet another chapter of unpredictability I say "gimme a dozen . . . again"!

I would describe myself as an organized person, I like every item to have a home to go to when I'm done using it. I probably inherited this trait from both of my parents, they are both rather obsessively clean folk with a system for housing their possessions. Through the years I've have waxed and waned in my particular-ness and standard with which I held myself to. Jr. highwasn't a very neat and tidy time in my life, however in high school I organized my closet and room obsessively. I like all my shirts to be hanging in the same direction and like styles grouped together and then similar colors grouped together within their style category.

Through the years I have dedicated hours on organizing systems for the various rooms in the houses we have lived. I've also accepted through the years that not everyone in my family has the same desire to keep their things or my things in the homes that I have assigned them. The notion of entropy (the inevitable breakdown of my systems) that exists in my world is always pressing into me as I live my life, that although organized, is chaotic and crazy. Moving 6 people into one direction, harmoniously and in a timely manner is virtually impossible and trying to get them to buy into a precise system has proven to be utterly frustrating, for me not them. They just don't care. I don't take their apathy personally anymore really, I've tried to develop a more laid back, meet in the middle kind of attitude instead of totally freaking out when I've hit my threshold for disorganization.

My strategy has dwindled to providing a stylish home for something big enough to hide that something so it appears to be organized. This also allows my kids to put stuff "away" on their own the way an 11, 8, 5 and 3 year old boy does--shove, stuff and close. Basically I provide hiding places for their Legos, cars, pirates, action figures, blocks, costumes and weaponry of all calibers. IKEA is my favorite place to find storage pieces mostly because it fits my budget and my style.

Every now and then I am compelled to obsessively organize those hiding places, like today when I sorted and labeled all the toys knowing full well that this gives me peace that surpasses their understanding. Maybe tomorrow I'll hit the refridgerater or keep playing Tetris with the tupperware and condiments as I prepare the meals for these little men whom I love more than organization.

For The Love Of Lucas

Historically I am not a dog lover or pet person, we got rid of our fish tank about 8 years ago and with the flushing of the last tank dweller have been decidedly anti-pet people. However earlier this summer I was overwhelmed with an obsession of finding a dog. The biggest driving force behind this breaking down of my non-pet ideals was my increasing thought that I needed something to protect me while running. With a series of runner attacks in the media and with more of my miles being spent on mountain trails my desire for another level of protection was mounting. I started thinking about carrying mace or a knife or small caliber gun, but although I am not a pet person I am even less of a weapon wielder. The thought of man's best friend running along side me and at the same time deterring some would-be assailant became a very comforting and romantic thought.

So after researching breeds and scanning shelters I came across an ad for an adorable 9 week old Weimaraner named Lucas. It was love at first sight for me and the 4 boys so in a moment of impulse we signed up to be his family, not on paper but in our hearts and minds. I soon realized that this creature was filling a spot in my heart that I never even imagined could exist and at the same time was overwhelmed by the amount of time my mind and physical energy was being given to him. Having a dog is in a lot of ways similar to having a baby except babies don't come armed with sharp teeth and claws. Babies also don't run at breakneck speeds through the house with your lacy bra dangling from their mouths and are usually covered by insurance when an unexpected medical issue arises.

Lucas is now 5 months old, weighs 50 lbs. and moves through our house much like a giraffe on roller skates. Very recently our devotion and commitment to our puppy was challenged when he became suddenly and violently ill. Our vet suspected an intestinal obstruction and as she listed off the battery of tests they would run, which included an overnight hospitalization, anxiety grew as the dollar signs multiplied in my mind and the sorrow in my heart was shocking as I saw Lucas lying on a cold metal table, barely conscience. I am usually very in control of my emotions, almost to a fault, but as I left the vet without my dog I could not control the sobs that were only enhanced by my fear of the bill I would be faced with when all was said and done. I found myself flabbergasted and conflicted theologically as I began praying for my dog and texting prayer requests to friends for this animal that had proved to be filling a spot in our family I never knew had been empty.

Luckily and thankfully Lucas did not have an obstruction only a severe virus treatable with antibiotics, not surgery. And as I tactfully requested a payment plan for his care, envisioning digits that included a comma, the receptionist handed me a bill far less than I expected. Breathing an audible sigh of relief, I grabbed Lucas' leash and walked out with my dog, smiling and thanking God for this gift.

Lucas has made a full recovery and is back to his normal self, which is at times overwhelming, I am still caught very off guard by my love for him even as he steals my underwear and plays keep away with me before the sun has risen or my caffeine is at an appropriate level for his early morning energy.

I guess that last post was more of a forward or preamble than a chapter and maybe left a little hanging. I suppose it was more of a starting place on where to take this blog that I have wanted so badly to make a priority, but having the circumstances of life overshadow-reality moving in all too often. So as I was lamenting the falls of the past six years and how this season brings hesitation and often pressure of the holidays to be wonderful, yet not panning out as . However as we embark on a new fall season my hesitation, although still very much there has lightened.

We have a new beginning in a new town at the foot of the beautiful Wasatch Mountains and as the leaves are becoming red in the hills above Bountiful I am thankful that next week is Halloween and Joe is doing ok. It seems an answer for his health has been found and we are working on moving on. The dry fall air is good and conjures thoughts of soup and fires and all those cozy things. Maybe this season will truly be a season of healing--if we could keep those nasty cold and flu germs at bay.

Turning the Page, Adding A New Chapter

Maybe it's that time of year or time of day or time of the month that is prompting this post. Or maybe it's because my mind doesn't sleep and I have too many jumbled thoughts roaming around up there like an old woman in a nursing home, not really sure how to get out or where to go. For the last six years fall and winter have been dark and hopeless times as I have watched my best friend and love of my life enter into the blackness of crippling pain and undiagnosed suffering which has robbed us of a life we could almost touch and smell only to be held out of reach and squashed. A terrifying and lonely place living inside a glass house of sorts as onlookers wondered from the outside, questioning our very integrity; casting judicious glances, unhelpful advice and ultimately stones which shattered all that we thought we were.

It's crazy, really, how the events of the past year have tried and called into question everything I held to be true about humanity, friendship and love. As the axis shifted and whirled our universe on a different path, my soul has bled and my endless supply of tears, it would seem, could've wash away all the pain and yet it remains. These scars I carry are fresh and new, tender like a sunburn or fresh tattoo-- I hope the image left behind is that one closer to the image of Christ and less of me.

This week a friend asked if I had a blog, even a secret one and I wished, in that moment, that I had. But the gnawing at my heart became a more intense desire to actually tell my story as it unfolds. Let it out and see where it goes.

From Underneath the Rubble

I should know by now that life is going to throw you a curve ball from time to time, I guess I should also know that my life has been a series of these unpredictable situations being hurled in my direction for the entirety of it thus far. The past few months have been crazy. And the craziest part is that I am alive and so are all of the members of my family. I have the sensation that I am walking in slow motion away from a hideous accident where you look around to make sure everyone is ok, all limbs accounted for, wiping debris from your face, picking unidentified objects from your hair and suddenly elated that other than a few minor abrasions and some emotional, spiritual nicks, you are no worse for the wear.
Obviously I am not the only human to experience the unimaginable again and again, and for sure my curve balls are minor in comparison to the vast majority of the human race. However as we all experience a tunnel vision of sorts as we walk through this life journey I am no different. As I weathered this most recent storm of a very sick and undiagnosed husband and my own personal health crisis my focus was so inward that as I look back, I have the sense of being encapsulated. Maybe this is God's love and protection--a sort of muffled, fuzzy, white noise that surrounded my periphery. The ability to be hyper focused, yet at times unable to remember.
I do believe that God holds me in the palm of his hand, that he is devoted to me and my family and that through these times he speaks and answers prayer. Our crisis's and valleys allow us to be elated on the mountain tops and molded more closely to His likeness. His best work is done in times of pain--because it is painful to change and be changed.

My need to write has been halted by my family's need to eat and function beyond watching Sponge Bob. Which incidentally, why is a yucky and often smelly tool for household work so funny when it lives in a pineapple under the sea?

So having two of my four warriors in training off being trained by qualified individuals has been somewhat stress reducing. The mad dash from my pillow to the bus stop only happens effectively when I have had the proper amount of caffeine in my veins, and even then, as we are now exactly half-way into week two I am only mostly sure that I am doing my best not to scar them with my rantings. Today I did the selfish and irresponsible thing of trying to shower during the morning sprint, leaving my very capable husband in charge. Not that it was a bad idea, we just have two differing views of a successful morning. Mine includes the children leaving with their homework and required food for their day away, and his does not.

My bigger problem with my sudden and almost violent leap into having 50% of my children in public school is the incomprehensible amount of paper I am now in charge of reading, filling out and giving back or responding to by a certain date. I am now convinced that our educational system might be responsible for the deforestation of our planet. I mean really.

Now I am willing to let this one go because I do care about my children's education and I do want to know what is going on. But I am suddenly missing my carefree days of lying by the pool trying to calmly keep them from killing each other and drowning. My tan is fading as fast as the leaves are changing their hue and the thing that makes me the most upset is that I am lacking, in a major way, a cute pair of fall shoes.

So, I have decided that if I don't start writing my thoughts and putting them out into the world, or at least out of my head, that my brain might explode. So here goes. Nothing fancy just some things I have been thinking about today.

School starts on Thursday and I have to say that between now and then might as well be an eternity in which you are being tortured by incessant whining and unending complaining where every five minutes one is asked, " What are we doing now?" , or "Can I have a snack?" It is the "Are we there yet" of the day to day. Enough to drive one mad, in the straight jacket, padded cell sense. Now, don't get me wrong I love all of my children but for the last 90 days or so I have spent most of my time with all four of my boys. I would like to think, for their sake, that I have a future in cruise directing or circus ring mastering, but unfortunately I do not aspire to those vocations in the future or in my present stay-at-home-mommyhood. I am of the theory that they should be happy with a stick some tape and our backyard. These items should be worth at least 30 minutes of joy if not a half an hour of using their brains.

Our world has been built on the shoulders of geniuses who never had summer camps, play dates, every toy known to man or indoor plumbing. For centuries boys and girls have been excelling beyond, what we would consider today, insurmountable odds. These backward and unfortunate souls have given us all the creations that we turn to for inspiration. Men and women such as Bach, Michelangelo, Plato, Aristotle, dare I say Einstein or Madam Curie (If I had any brain cells left this list would be way more insightful a list). The list could go on, but I will spare you a little. So why is it that my kids don't seem to be able to entertain themselves without me becoming Julie from the Love Boat?

Okay. I suddenly feel able to exhale.