THE BOX OF ME

Yesterday my eldest son had a school assignment to fill a box with things that represented him. Once in class, the students were to present the box to the class and give explanations for the items they chose.

Eldest's "Box of Me"

The items he chose:

A glove he found while on a meaningful trip

A rusty piece of metal he found at his Grandparents' farm

A beautiful purple rock given to him by his Aunt

A wooden ink pen he made himself at a Scout woodworking workshop

The hand exerciser he uses to strengthen his grip for rappelling/climbing

A piece of duct tape

Skateboard trucks

His Nixon watch

I can look at the contents of the box he assembled and agree that it contains the essence of what makes up my incredible Number One Son. Not many of the items would be of monetary value to anyone else, and of the ones that would, I can report that he bought them himself or made them himself.

I started thinking about how many times the content of this box of his would change over his lifetime. If he'd done the same exercise three years ago he would've had totally different items in the box. Legos maybe, candy, a book, a rock and an arrowhead. Two years from now my bet is the contents will again change altogether. Kind of a wonderful mystery-to-come of who he will be then.

Those thoughts are the same ones that, a few months ago, led to the feeling I have that my childrens' youth is slipping through my fingers, tiptoeing away quickly and quietly so that I don't notice until a large chunk is already gone. I have four more years with my oldest before he's old enough to decide to live somewhere else, do something else. Two years before he's old enough to drive himself somewhere. Time is already up on some precious things, like me being his favorite girl. Sadly that boat sailed when he was 10. I repeat mantras like "Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he will not depart from it," I pray for my children every day, every time I pray, and yet I panic that there's something, something important, I'm forgetting to teach them. That I'm spending too much time and effort on things that may turn out to be less important than things I'm not devoting enough time to. That I put too much emphasis on those lesser important things and not enough on the crucial things that will give him the scaffolding to be a man.

Then he puts together a box like this one above, and I listen to comments my friends make about the choices he made of items to illustrate who he is, and relax just a little and recognize that he has the elements of a good man in his heart already. That maybe he'll grow up and be fine in spite of me instead of because of me. That fortunately, he has a Heavenly Father that loves him eeeeeven more than his Dad and I do - and how that is possible is so far beyond the scope of my understanding that I have to stand on faith that it's true, because I can't love anyone any more than I love that child.

I'm holding on to the few things that he hasn't yet stopped doing. He still hugs me and says I love you when he leaves to go somewhere, (provided of course no one is around). He still asks my advice when he's faced with a tough situation he can't work out on his own. He still texts me and sends me pictures when he's off with someone else. I'm told those things will go away too, at some point. I'm just enjoying them for now and trusting that even if he stops for awhile, that at some point he'll come back to it.

As I was looking at the box he put together for his assignment, I speculated about what I would put in a box to represent who I am.

I don't think my eldest would fit in the box.

GEORGIA CRACKERS and ALABAMA CAVIAR

Every Christmas my mother-in-law makes a dish with black eyed peas, chopped bell pepper, onions, tomatoes, and Italian dressing. She gooshes it all up together and puts it in a bowl next to the Scoops or Monster Fritos and announces that the LA Caviar is served. That's for Lower Alabama.

I had that on my mind this morning. Yesterday a friend was relating a story to me about a recent experience where someone in her conversation group had used the term "cracker" to describe an extremely Southern person with an extremely Southern accent and an extremely Southern persona and just all around extremely Southern emanations. My friend was hot. Annoyed at the use of the term.

Now, it's my personal opinion that you will only be offended by something if that something is a sore spot for you. Or if you care. Make sense? Clearly there are exceptions; grievously offensive or hurtful words, for example, but we're not talking about that depth of offense anyway.

So back to Crackers. Here's the thing. Dictionary.com has five definitions for the word. Numbers one through three being what you would expect and referring to crisp flatbreads (which you could eat LA caviar off of. Let us take a moment to revel in the irony.) and stuff you light and explode on July 4th, here are numbers four and five:

4. Sometimes Disparaging and Offensive. a native or inhabitant of Georgia (used as a nickname).

5. Disparaging and Offensive . a poor white person living in some rural parts of the southeastern U.S.

SOMEtimes disparaging and offensive, a native or inhabitant of Georgia. What times? The times that you choose to interpret it that way, that's what times. I am most definitely, gratefully, and proudly an inhabitant and native of Georgia. I fudge on the native part a little. In the interest of full disclosure, I'll add that I was born in Alabama (middle, not lower) but my family was from Georgia and returned to Georgia when I was very young. Regardless. The point is that by definition I am a Cracker. And I am profoundly, entirely in love with and dedicated to that definition, being an inhabitant and native of Georgia, so I take on the term Cracker with gusto. Bring it on.

I could pick the number five definition instead and be hacked off, but why would I do that? AND. On some days I feel like I belong in that category too. Precisely what is offensive about being poor and white?

I love the name of my dear friend's blog: "Georgia Black Crackers". Mavis is an African American woman in hot pursuit of the genealogy of her family. Think the word Cracker bothers her? Here's a link. See for yourself: http://georgiablackcrackers.blogspot.com/

How I interpret (anything) is my decision. How I react is my decision. How I feel is my decision. The minute my friend went to the dark side upon hearing that term, she gave away her power. She alone defines herself, not the doofus who referred to that delightful Southern character as a Cracker. The A number 1 irony is that doofus thought he was being offensive, meant to be offensive, derisive, by using the term. So he misused the term Cracker. My question is, does that make him one?

SAGE, LEMON BALM and TESTOSTERONE

I am cultivating a small herb garden in a little plot to the side of the house. Couple reasons for that. Besides just that I have the need to grow fresh herbs, directly in front of this little plot is the boys' basketball goal. Most afternoons and weekends there is a clutch of men-in-training stomping around mercilessly about the basketball goal, the entire passel oblivious to the concept of purposeful landscaping. The goal then, (ha, get it?) of my plant choices was to choose the toughest, most hardy plants available. Herbs. For the most part, bugs don't bother them, there are plenty of perennials to choose from, and they're useful to use and share. What I didn't realize was there would be yet another benefit. For me, that is. For the boys, not so much.

When they come in from shooting basketball, they smell like lemon balm - an intoxicatingly delightful scent, not to mention that it's an astonishing improvement for their shoes to smell like lemons instead of the way they usually smell. I can't even describe that smell, although the word wicked comes to mind.

Occasionally I look out the kitchen window and watch them play for a minute. The other day the agglomeration of boys ranged from seven years of age to fourteen. They were particularly aggressive on this day - they'd been to a neighbor's house and the poor, trusting Mom had allowed the kids full access to the refrigerator, in which the Dad's stash of Mountain Dew was kept. Nice and chilled. Full of mega-caffeine. "Here I am," it called to the bunch o boys. "D-r-i-n-k m-e-e-e-e."

So they did.

Alas, the barbaric basketball game. Holy cow, I thought. If I don't get some water in those kids to flush out that caffeine and sugar, they'll kill each other. Or gang up on some poor unsuspecting soul and mame him. Either way, it wasn't the way I envisioned the afternoon unfolding. I quickly fixed a gallon of cold, icy water, grabbed a stash of go-cups and headed outside.

"Boys, take a water break."

"Ok Mom, - QUIT it - just a sec - LET GO OF MY HAIR - and we'll be - I SAID QUIT IT! HAIR IS OFF LIMITS!" - right there."

Sheesh. Had someone not seen this gaggle of boys together before they would never believe they're a creative, polite, well-mannered group that gee-haws naturally.

Not this day. At times like this I find it unbelievably inconvenient that I don't have the ability to whistle. I do, however, possess lungs capable of hollering almost as loud as the storm siren. Or so I've been told.

"Scatter!" When you scream it while simultaneously cracking a six foot bull whip onto pavement, it is downright astounding how quickly a testosterone-caffeine-sugar filled group of boys come to attention. Bug eyes were just a bonus.

"Mizzez Ceeeeee!"

"Yes Samuel?"

"You. Are. Da. MAN!"

"Yes, Samuel, yes I am. Now then. Each of you men-in-training to your own corner. Find your own spot and/or your own toy or game. No team sports or group play for thirty minutes AND four glasses of water each. When you've met those two criteria, you may reconvene. Any questions I thought not."

"Mizzez C?"

"Yes, Samuel?"

"Y'know this minty like stuff we step on all the time while we're playing ball?"

"Yes, Samuel."

"Kin I pick a leaf er two and shove it down in my waw-tah?"

"Yes, Samuel."

"Um, wait. Mizzez C?"

"Yes Samuel?"

"Thur's this other stuff I step on sometimes - I mean I don't mean to step on it honest - but anyway it don't smell like lemons. It smells like my Gran's house at Thanksgiving. What's thet?"

"That's sage, Samuel. Would you like to take some home to your Mom?"

"No thanks. I hate the way my Gran's house smells at Thanksgiving."

I love boys. They're tough, sensitive, and oh so honest, all wrapped up in one big ball of - well, usually dirt.

PEEP-TOE BOOTIES and other insane logic

We enjoy oxymorons - my friends and family bat them around, making jokes, poking fun. One of my friends' husband belongs to a group that does actual reenactments of Civil War battles. That one always gives us all a chuckle. My CPA friend murmurs about consistent discrepancies. Another friend's son just joined a co-ed fraternity. My friend the English teacher has a specific, accurate, narrow definition for oxymoron. She's a purist. But I like ones that even just nod to oxymoronism. Limited freedom. Political ethics. Fresh sour cream. Willful negligence? What about a stripper's dressing room?

These fit into the category nicely:

My brain just can't take this in. Are we trying to keep our ankles and heels warm and give our toes and arches air?

Are they boots or sandals?

<----This is like wearing evening shoes with daisy dukes and a wife beater.

My friend the professional singer thinks I'm a baboon when I get the giggles after she says live recording. OK the term comes up more than you'd think.

Here are some more favorites:

initial conclusion

authentic replica

extensive briefing

marijuana initiative

Windows XP

flexible ethics (I don't even want to know)

And my personal favorite: enough time

Oxymorons are sort of accidental hyperboles. I like literary accidents. We'll examine puns next. We have competitions with those.

STORIES I'LL NEVER FORGET or, 3D COMIN' ATCHA!

It's curious what your brain decides is important enough to file away. Based somehow on what an impact an event, story, a fact has upon you when you learn it, your brain either files it in memory or pitches it into File 13. We're to believe that our brain is employed by us, functions on our behalf, uses our own personal character, abilities, needs, and interests to help distinguish what to file and what to pitch. I beg to differ.

I can, for some screwball reason, recall some of the goofiest details of the waygone past, but can't remember what time I'm supposed to pick up my eldest from FCA. Oh relax. I always remember to pick him up. I just have to scramble to figure out whether it's over at 5:00 or 5:30.

For example, every time I see the word "cutout", I'm reminded of the time my sister-in-law was bra shopping at a great sale at Macy's. All the sale bras were in a big bin - the kind that looks like a messy underwear drawer where you have to rifle through it all to find what you're looking for. Well, sister got tired of looking and grabbed a bra that suited her. She exclaimed, "Oh look! This one has sweet little triangle shaped cutouts at the top of the cup. Yep. I'll take this one." She got home and tried it on quickly to realize the cutouts were not at the TOP of the cup. They were in, errr, in a much more revealing spot. Sorta slap dab in the middle.

Q: When is a sale not a sale?

A: When the sale bra you bought makes you look like you're not wearing a bra.

What's the point of that anyway? (Yes, yes, yes. I get the pun.)

So why in heaven's name would my brain perceive that is critical enough to remember while tossing aside the time I'm supposed to pick up my child?

Here's a good one. A friend of mine who had a quite precocious child recounted an incident to me while we were sitting around the country club pool once. Oh relax. We lived in a rural Georgia town where the country club cost about as much as a suburban Atlanta YMCA.

"I guess we forgot to lock the bedroom door." Stories that start with that sentence never end well. She leaned forward and spoke in an embarrassed whisper. "Glenn and I were engaged in passionate, all-consuming - uhhh - intimacy. 'K? Suddenly," she says with much redness about the face, neck, and ear tips, "I feel something tickling my feet."

Uh oh. Do you know anyone whose chest begins to get very red and blotchy when they're upset? Then from the chest, the red blotchiness spreads to their neck, betraying their feigned attempt at confidence, composure, aplomb?

She screamed. Glenn took it as a compliment. Tamara jerked and craned her neck over Glenn's shoulder to see their son, all of aged 7, standing at the bottom of the bed.

"I KNEW THAT THING HAD TO BE FOR SOMETHING BESIDES JUST PEEing!"

I remember the story almost word for word. I remember the swimsuit she was wearing and the color of her eyeliner. I remember the time of day and the color beach towel I had flung on the pool chaise. I even remember the book I was reading at the time. I recall the comment my mother-in-law had when I told her that story. "That child oughta be glad his parents love each other."

That family moved away shortly after and sadly we did not keep in touch. Yet, even though my brain can retrieve that story in its entirety with details intact, I can't remember which one of my friends loves avacados and which one had a doctor appointment I need to ask after.

I only hope that when I tell them the story about Tamara and Glenn, they'll laugh so hard and love me so much for my funny stories they'll forgive me for not remembering that I should be asking about their doctor's report.

No, I don't think I'm in charge of what gets saved to the grey matter and what goes to the recycle bin. Is it a cop-out? Maybe. Do I get points for wanting to remember the important stuff? Maybe. Regardless, it is what it is. I adore my friends, my family, and I'm thinking, I'm fairly certain, confident even, that they know it. What I don't have in memory I hope I'm making up for in attention, empathy, and time spent.

READING and other luxuries

A few months ago I came into the 21st century with regard to reading. Begrudgingly and with a tearful wave to the tactile wonderfulness of a book spine in my hand, the musty smell of a book and its pages, and the beauty of a sweet little bookmark poking out of the top of a book, I got a Nook.

Little did I realize.

This gadget holds thousands of books. The world is my book!

Partially ok mostly because my kids were young, also because I had kids in my arms and no room to tote books, up until a few years ago I had all but stopped reading. Almost sheepishly I admit that with the exception of vacations or hospital sitting I didn't crack a book. Well, I didn't crack a book for pleasure. Cookbooks I cracked plenty. How to raise strong-willed boys cracked a bunch of those too. Anywayzeez not until I began reading again for pleasure, now that my kids are reaching varying stages of independence, did I recognize how very much I was missing.

BC (before children) I think, if memory serves, I probably read minimally a book a week. I forgot how my vocabulary increases exponentially and without me recognizing it. I forgot how my head and my heart become more open, more flexible, more understanding of the world and people around me. I forgot how my brain works at a quickened pace, processes at an accelerated speed (not breakneck ok, I mean this is me we're talking about, not Einstein). I forgot how the more I read the more I crave to read.

I always envied my sweet sissy, who, even when her children were young, could sit on the sofa, totally engulfed by a book. Of course, it's important to know she has girls. They read with her. Sat quietly, looked pretty. All you could hear in the room was pages turning, classical music in the background. All you smelled was perfume. *sigh*

I have boys. Enough said? I can't even describe what our house smells like. (Thank goodness for candles.) I never mastered the art of reading a book while keeping one kid from jumping out of the top branch of a tree while the other one was stealthily placing a springboard on the landing bullseye. And yes, I did have an hour here and there while they were practicing soccer. I discussed snack schedules. Made menus, grocery lists. Clipped coupons. It was either then or during church.

Right now I'm reading four books at once. One fiction, one auto-biography, one memoir, and one cookbook/storybook. My eldest reads two fiction books at once but I don't have the brain power to keep characters and storylines straight. Maybe as I read more.

Each of the four books serves a different purpose and depending on whether I have ten minutes and need to jump into and out of a book quickly, have thirty minutes to read before I go to sleep, or an hour at the pool while the kids play, I have something appropriate to read without having to haul a stack of heavy books around in my arms and in the car. I recommend it.

Ironic what happens when you hesitate to jump out of your comfort zone and embrace new concepts. When the ereaders came out I winced and shook my head, poo-pooing electronic reading in favor of the feeeeeeel of a book, the smell, the experience, of reading a book. Great in romantic theory. Practically, not so much. That poo-poo kept me from reading voraciously which, as it turns out, is way higher on the scale than smelling the mold from an old book and using cute bookmarks.

Just sayin'.

IT JUST MAKES YOU SHAKE YOUR HEAD

A friend's husband passed away yesterday. The two of them were so close, devoted to each other and family. Having raised their children, retired from jobs, they were in the era of their lives where they had the time to notice the beauty in things, not from the interstate at 65 mph careening toward work, but slowly, easily, where they could stop, sit, reflect and enjoy the simple loveliness of a tree. A grandchild. A spouse's smile. And most especially, the true beauty of time itself. It was to be the time in their lives where they got to lie down in the grass or sit in their recliner or on their porch swing and recognize, fully, that they were not wasting time, but enjoying and appreciating time.

My first thought was "there's always a reason things happen". A paraphrase of a popular scripture in Romans, "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose."

It's a comforting concept to fall back on, an answer when there is no answer. For those of us who study God's word there are a googlezillion other scriptures that convey that message. We believe it, have faith in it, recite it while shaking our heads at some misfortune or sad event.

In the face of this kind of loss however, my human need for understanding, for putting things in their proper perspective rears its head. I know what the Word says, but what could the reason possibly be? A woman loses the love of her life just when the sweetness of life was emerging? A woman who says things like "Love is like a violin. The music may stop now and then, but the strings remain forever... '"

I don't get it but I don't have to. The word "but" is what gets me in trouble. I know what the Word says BUT. But I have to understand. The truth is I don't. I, me, myself, this isn't about me. (Got that revelation on the treadmill this morning.) Again, He pointed out that I'm but a speck. Important to Him but in perspective, a speck. Unless I'm omnipotent I don't have enough information to understand what the reason could be. Same as any other situation - fact gathering is a necessity before understanding and an informed decision can be made.

And so it is that it occurs to me it's my own ego that engages me and says "Oh girl you have to figure this out. Get it to work. Make sense. Put it in a cubbyhole."

Nooooo, I don't.

There's nothin' worse than an egotistical 51 year old white blonde woman. I don't want to be her. Nope. So my role is to support and sympathize, pray for the one who passed and his family.

And what a relief that turns out to be. Big ol' burden off my shoulders, trying to figure God's stuff out. I'm leaving it to Him. I have a hunch He's capable. There are lots of things that He asks me to help Him with even though He's capable of doing it Himself. This isn't one of them.

AND I THOUGHT JUST THE IDEA WAS ATTRACTIVE

My kids call me names - lots of 'em. It makes them giggle so hard they snort. Their favorite is Food Nazi. Earth Mother is another common one. Tree Hugger, Henna Hippie, Natural Nellie, Organic Mama.

In my home you will find chemicals galore and even some junky processed food. I only do what makes sense to me at the time and make improvements one at a time, and I'm good with that. I don't care to present an organic image as though it's an attractive character. It's a work in progress. I figure by the time I'm 60 I will have rid my home of nearly every chemical, be growing all my own food, capturing my own water, and still feeding my kids home cooked meals from scratch when they come home to visit. I will, however, still be going to the salon to have my roots done. Just sayin'.

See what I mean? Total hypocrite. I'm good with that. I only use organic products if they W-O-R-K, and there are many needs for which I've not found such a thing. Yet. Soooo, I will continue to use the mainstream, nasty, polluting, environment robbing products until such time as I can find some natural, organic product that WORKS. I'm confident I'm not screwing my kids out of a beautiful future world in the meantime.

For example. I've watched and read every single informational piece OUT there about natural weedkillers. Tried them all. I mean AAAAAAAAAALL. Did my share. Drove around the world (really just Atlanta but it's shockingly similar) finding unusual, organic ingredients, mixing, fixing, experimenting. Tried the "you have everything you need for a great garden and lawn in your kitchen cabinet" route. Mixed, fixed, experimented. Tried the retail organic stuff. No mixing, fixing, yet still an experiment.

Nuh-uh. None in the same class as Round-Up. Round-Up is da bomb. It's on a pedestal at my house with a spotlight trained on it, almost equivalent with the joy my family and pets give me. Nah, not really, but it is. so. great. You just can't kill poison oak with borax, vinegar or salt. It's a fact. So I'll continue to use Round Up until such time that a true replacement is found.

Note: Replacement (verb, used with an object)

1. to assume the former role, position, or function of, substitute for

2. to provide a substitute or equivalent in the place of

3. to restore, return, make good.

Note key words and phrases above: to assume the function of, to provide an equivalent.

I rest my case.

On the other hand, there are many organic and/or natural products I have embraced and there are new ones on the market all the time. It's getting easier. The products work and they don't break the bank (another big criteria). Alternatively, I've made my own products for years: window cleaner, all purpose cleaners, laundry detergent, soaps, cleansers, lotions, shaving gels, lip balms, and so on. Making organic/natural products is even better (and usually less expensive) than buying them.

To be fair however, I'm not the only person living in my home, and the other three do not walk the organic road so willingly. So. I have backup in some appropriate cases. I have a bottle of off-the-shelf laundry detergent for the rare occasion that any of the three of the others living in my home might try to do laundry. I have off-the-shelf toilet cleanser in the boys' bathroom. It's difficult enough to get them to swab their own pottie when it's one easy step; no way would they carefully pour baking soda and then vinegar into the pottie, let it fizz and sit, then swab. It's a matter of success and survival. Where to make concessions. What to concede to.

And so it was that I came to use Method brand anti-bacterial kitchen cleanser. Functional, not too expensive, smells good, and not made up of caustic chemicals. Not perfect, but good stuff. In fact, now I know to tell you this, the active ingredient is thyme oil. Here's how I know. Funny story.

Last week the boys and I went to Florida, leaving my hunky hubby and their daddy home all alone. Now then. While he's not a fastidious person, nor is he interested in order or neatness or bothered by the lack of it, he did a commendable job keeping the kitchen man-clean. Not woman-clean, but a fair job nonetheless. I was appropriately impressed.

However. During our absence an army of sugar ants marched in to keep him company. Upon our return, hunky hubby waltzed back off to work during the day to leave me to deal with organizing and implementing their demise.

Day 1: Washed down counters, sinks, backsplashes, handles, faucets, windowsills, underneath of cabinets and any other random surface on the affected bank of countertop, ostensibly to clean whatever microscopic blops of food or sugar to which the teensy soldiers were attracted.

Day 2: Woke up to tripled efforts by the ant army. Hunky husband stopped by pesticide store on the way home and bought Amdro or Terro or something super strong max strength ant bait. Repeated day 1's cleaning efforts and placed ant bait units in appropriate places. Went to bed.

Day 3: Ant armies called in the infantry, the cavalry, and maybe even military from cooperating countries, I dunno. My white countertop looked like a Belted Galloway cowhide from a distance.

I love these cows. My kids used to call them Oreo cows.

Anyway, the ants were crawling OVER the commercial ant bait to get to my countertops. I declared war of my own. I got serious. I made up my own slow-acting poison that the unassuming lil buggars would drink, get drunk on, and take back to their queen, who is apparently busily spitting out baby ants quicker'n I can kill 'em, the hoochie. Ran out of Method cleaner so I used my homemade vinegar cleaner to repeat day 1's ministrations, then poured blobs of my heinous killer bait in appropriate places.

Day 4: No ants.

Day 5: No ants.

Guess what. No go ahead, guess!

The Method cleaner was attracting the ants.

That is too left of center for even me to wrap my head around. Here's the bottom line question, and boy it's a head scratcher:

How can it be a cleaner if it attracts bugs??????

This organic/natural concept/battle just never stops, does it......

BIBLE STUDIES and SERVICE PROJECTS

Last night at 2:00am I was lying wide-eyed staring at the ceiling fan and giving my snoring husband the stink-eye (unbeknownst to him because he was ASLEEP) and wondering why insomnia is such an ingrained part of my personal make-up. As you can imagine I came up with no good ideas for that question (and you can well believe I've beat the subject to death over the years). So I looked past the ceiling fan and said, "Ok God it's just you and me. Whaddya want to talk about?" As it turns out he wanted to discuss the service project I am committed to do as a part of my summer bible study program. We have several choices but I had been initially and particularly drawn to a specific one called Seven Bridges. What perked my ears when I heard it was that Seven Bridges Road is my favorite song in the world by the Eagles. And yes. I do believe in signs like that. The Seven Bridges is a recovery program for homeless who live under the bridges and in the streets of Atlanta. It's for the last, the lost, and the least, they say. (I love that. Alliteration is a beautiful, powerful tool.) It's a first step program to rescue homeless and then provide placement into a recovery program. Once they go through that program they are connected to a next-step resource at a discipleship home or whatever is appropriate for their personal needs.

Me: So. God. I-I-I-I just donnnnn't knowwwww about the under the bridges thing- yikes. I'm kind of scared about that.

God: You think I won't take care of you when I'm the one that put that project in your head?

Me: Well when you put it THAT way......

God: Remember what I said to Job?

Me: Well no. Maybe. I don't know. Which time? You know I'm not super knowledgeable about Your Scriptures. But I do want You to know I'm working on it.

God: I know. I'm talking about when I lectured Job for pages and pages in your Bible about how powerful I am and how he obscured my plans with words backed with nothing - no knowledge. I told him to brace himself and answer like a man when I asked him things like "where were you when I laid the earth's foundation?" and "have you ever given orders in the morning or shown the dawn its place that it might take the earth by the edges and shake the wicked out of it?" and "can you raise your voice to the clouds and cover yourself with a flood of water? Do you sent the lightening bolts on their way? Do they report to you, 'Here we are'?" and "does the hawk take flight by your wisdom and spread its wings toward the south? Does the eagle soar at your command and build its nest on high?"

"Well, Missy", He said. "Don't MAKE me direct that lecture to you." (And I'm telling you. for all the world that sounded like 'Don't make me stop this car!')

Me: Ok. I get it. And by the way, I love that scripture.

God: Thanks, my dear daughter. And I love YOU.

So. Even though it was made abundantly clear that I am but a speck in all His plans, I am still everything to Him. Quite a paradox and acutely, remarkably comforting at the same time.

My next prayer to Him will be that He bestow the same comfort about my Seven Bridges project upon my husband. Ha.

Well since you're snivvling

Half a dozen folks I know are snotty. Snivvly, snarfley, honkin, sneezin, hackin sick. I don't know what's blooming right now but it's prevailing over lots of my friends' and family's immune system. So here are my favorite remedies:

Cold Relief for the bath:

2 cups Epsom Salts

1 cup Sea Salt

1/2 cup baking soda

6 drops Eucalyptus essential oil

6 drops Lavender essential oil

6 drops Peppermint essential oil

6 drops Tea Tree essential oil

1-2 tablespoons of oil, whatever oil you choose - almond, grapeseed, olive, coconut

Mix ingredients thoroughly and seal in an airtight jar. Add 1/2 cup of salts to bathwater.

Muscle rub:

4 oz sweet almond oil

3 oz beeswax

1 oz cocoa cutter

15-20 drops Vitamin E oil

25-30 drops Lavender essential oil

Melt all and pour into a mold or jar. Great alternative for those who don't care for the scent of menthol. I found out when my eldest was verrrry leedle that menthol affects him negatively. I put Vicks in the medicine cup of his humidifier and within minutes he was uncomfortable and jumpy and he couldn't stay in the room.

Special Cold Tea

Boil 4 cups of water.

Grate a 1" piece of ginger and put in teapot. Add about 5 or 6 tablespoons of fresh lemon juice. Add a dollop of honey or Agave nectar - 2-3 tablespoons (to taste).

Put the lid on teapot and allow to steep a few minutes. Strain into your teacup to avoid getting bits of ginger.

Commercial favorites:

Pure-Aid Hot Patches they contain menthol and capsaicine. Great for chest or between shoulders.

Ocean - helps open up nose and sinuses without harmful (and addictive) decongestants or steroids.

Fishermans Friend lozenges - same ingredients and recipe since the 1800s. Not organic, but no artificial ingredients.

Hot water bottle, heating pad, and humidifier. The good old staples of cold war.

Heal quickly!!!

BLUEBERRIES FOR SAL (and me)

This is my favorite Robert McCloskey book, even more than Make Way for Ducklings or Homer Price. He wrote it in the 1940s and won a Caldecott for it. I have an old copy of it that was printed in the 1960s and the illustrations were homey and warm; the illustration of the kitchen reminds me of my Grandmother's old kitchen. My Mom read it to me, then she read it to my sister, then I read it to my little brother. I read it to both my kids so often they could recite it verbatim.

I went blueberry pickin' this morning. I got up early and drove to my favorite Pick Your Own blueberry farm with a cup of Southern Pecan coffee and the sunroof open. I always think about Blueberries for Sal when I pick blueberries. I got out of the car and walked into the field between the rows where many of the blueberry bushes are so tall they provide sort of an arbor to walk down. It was peaceful, sun was shining down in broken streaks through the branches, birds were singing and a couple of bluebirds were fussing at me, and my toes were damp from the dew. Life was good. I was putting handfuls of berries in my bucket and eating one every now and then when a plump, juicy one was just too much to resist. I thought "wouldn't it be funny if I heard a rustle of leaves and a 'plink, plank, plunk' from the other side of the row.

No such luck. I'd rather it have been a baby bear, to tell you the truth. But no, it was two women who had come to pick berries together. Guessing they were in their 70s. They enjoyed each other's company and while they were picking they conversed. N-o-n-s-t-o-p. Theyyyyyyy talked about vitamin supplements, they talked about their husbands' declining health and vigor, they talked about sales at the grocery stores, what they cooked for dinner last night, their hip pain, their thin fingernails, their droopy eyes, droopy boobs and shingle butts and other minutia. Sooooo much other minutia. My ears began to throb. Where in the heck was my quiet, lovely, early morning outside time where I could marvel at God's handywork while I picked blueberries so ripe and juicy they were all but dripping from the bush? listen to birds tweet and squawk? squench my toes in the dewy grass? I moved to the other end of the field lest my throbbing ears begin to bleed. It was a little quieter there but I could still hear the Prattle Twins. From that distance they sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher, which was a vast improvement from the pastiche of subjects they'd discussed in detail within my earshot.

Decidedly they have a different archetype for blueberry picking. Theirs is one of camaraderie and conversation, mine of solitude and meditative time, admiration for nature. At least I came home with a gallon of blueberries, which have now been washed and at the moment are drying on trays with the fan blowing on them. When they're dry they'll go in the freezer until they're individually frozen, and from there into Zippie freezer bags.

I guess when I'm 70 I may be one of those women - the ones who are in the moment, who don't care who's around or who hears them, who feel compelled to loudly discuss inconsequential and somewhat private drivel in public places - after all, to be fair that describes the entirety of this blog, so who am I to judge??? See you prolly didn't care to know the details of how I was preserving my blueberries, but I hadta tell you.

A few more of my favorite childrens' books:

This was a particularly special book to my kids, who never had blankets for woobidies but other objects instead. Every single time I read the name Owen I thought about screaming it the way Anne Ramsey did in Throw Momma from the Train. Never did. But I thought about it.

Gerald McBoing Boing is a hidden Dr. Seuss treasure. I always had to read this one using appropriate voices for each character.

As it turns out, my youngest son IS Gerald McBoing Boing.

This one is a favorite because my hunky hubby used to read it to my kids aaaaaaaaaaaall the tiiiiiiiiiime. Another one they could recite by rote. The reading of it produced a particular cadence, sort of a rhythm that always made me tilt and rock my head and shoulders like I was doing the snake. No matter what I was doing, when I heard them reading Dummer Hoff, my head and shoulders were movin'.

I don't know whether my kids loved Corduroy or if it was just me and they tolerated me reading it to them. It never was one they asked for by name, but I always threw it in anyway. Such a sweet story.

A-CAMPING THEY WILL GO (or, Mommy has some girl time!)

This is home for my hunky hubby for the next three days.

All three of my guys are gone to various getaway spots. Ronny and Jr Mint are in the woods camping with the Cub Scout pack, and Eldest is in Florida with his cousins.

Poor, poor lonely Mommy. *sigh*

When such an occasion arises that I'm sleeping single in my king sized bed, the gamut of emotions runs a wide berth. I adore ADORE, I say, plump pillows behind me and all my creature comforts within easy reach; nail polish, magazines, Nook, remotes, cell phone, netbook. As a general rule multi-tasking is not my strong suit, but this is an exception. I can text, talk on the phone, watch a movie, surf the net, read a magazine, and paint my nails simultaneously. One has to wonder then, why I can't help my kid with homework and answer my husband's questions and cook dinner all at the same time. But that's another post.

At any rate, apart from turning my bed into a girl party for one, once I settle down in the covers and turn the lights off I miss -yes, I really am saying - I miss hunky hubby's snoring. I heard my great aunt say one time that was one of the things she missed most about her husband who had recently died, listening to him snore beside her. She went on to say she wished she had appreciated it more while he was living instead of poking him to turn over and grumbling. She discovered only after he was gone what a comforting, peaceful sound it was and how uncomfortably quiet her nights were without it.

Can you even imagine the decibel level of snoring at the Scout camp-out? Yikes.

Here's another professional snorer. The big one. That's my baby brother with my boys. That, in fact, is another boy trip. They were touring a military ship and #1 Snorer of whom I spoke earlier was taking the picture.

Eldest doesn't snore, but he travels while sleeping. Jr Mint doesn't snore either, but he has discussions in his sleep. Between the three, nighttime is a pretty lively time at our home.

Back to Mommy time. There was a warm stone pedicure yesterday, and today there will be shopping. Probably not the kind of shopping you might assume. I need a rain barrel, bird seed and some fresh veggies, so I will be headed to Tractor Supply later on, and then to the farmer's market from there. My kind of shopping.

So tonight, fresh steamed vegetables for dinner. Mmmm. (The carnivores are camping.) If I'm lucky the fresh salsa guy will be at the farmers market and I'll have chipotle avacado salsa and chips with my veggies. Blueberry picking tomorrow. Mmmm. First Friday Art Walk tomorrow night, yaaaaay. Saturday my fellas come home, hoo-rah!!!!!!

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY FROM MY DAD (and me)

I usually repost this every Veterans Day, but I missed it this year. I think it's just as appropriate for Independence Day since we're celebrating the history, government, patriotism, and traditions of the United States.

It's a letter from my Dad to his Uncles on a Memorial Day several years ago. Pretty self explanatory. He copied my siblings and myself. He sent it to me in a plain white #10 envelope with a little note attached in his (usual) henscratch that said something simple like he thought I might like a copy, that this was something he felt strongly about and had for years and finally was able to articulate it -something like that, I don't remember his exact words now. I have it in my "treasures" box.

My Dad has a unique way of writing that combines factual information with the emotions he feels in a straightforward manner that, while it isn't flowery or wordy, is perfectly descriptive and yet poignantly eloquent. He puts a fine point on the subject and then blurs it a little. This is one of his most powerful pieces and I only read it once a year, but on that one occasion I read it over and over and over. And over. With a wad of Kleenex in hand. Then I thank God for my Uncle Paul and Uncle Ralph, my Dad, and so many thousands of others who could have been the recipient of this very letter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dear Paul and Ralph,

I guess I would not have started this letter had not some things come together. Mainly the publication of the book THE GREATEST GENERATION by Tom Brokaw, the observance of Memorial Day by the nation, and the need I have to tell you both that you have always been my heroes. I'm sure I could not say that face to face without making a fool of myself. My son and I have frequently talked of the selfless, noble self-sacrifice of your generation during World War II, and have lamented the passing of that great large-hearted outlook in defense of your country. It has probably not been said as it should be said yet, but Tom Brokaw does a credible job while we are waiting for perfection.

Both my son and I are in awe of your generation. That something horrible has happened to the American heart and spirit between then and now we both know, but we do not know how to say it. The wonder for both of us is that the people of your generation are not affected by the current one. There remains the same spirit of manners, helpful cooperation, humility and the total lack of pretension as were present when you served.

Among the several blessings I realize regarding my children is that they all three got somehow the gene for analysis and the ability to see, quickly, to the core of a matter, and as a result we talk of the two of you more than you realize. I know you have seen the "media" coverage of Memorial Day and all the hype attendant on such an occasion. I doubt that all that meant much to either of you. Well, this letter is a poor attempt at bringing the hyperbole right down to the most elementary level, in an effort to persuade you, fifty four years after the fact, that, if you both had not risked getting you ass shot off a hundred, a thousand times, we would all likely be speaking Japanese or German now.

So never doubt that, in the extended family, everyone in my age range and younger, whether they say it or not, realize that we all owe you, both of you, a debt that we can never pay by simple thank yous. And it is not strange that the attempt to express what we feel chokes us up so that we feel like fools trying to get out what we feel.

We all know that you are heroes, and you will always be."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So happy Fourth, rah rah for the red, white and blue, and with all due respect to the Declaration of Independence and its import on this occasion, rather I'm celebrating the humans that have made independence possible through the generations and today.

BLOOD KIN, BRANCH KIN, FAMILY

My youngest had his six month dental cleaning this morning. Bless his heart, his reports are never as good as his brother's. His older brother has no cavities, straight, strong teeth and a knock-em-dead smile. Jr. Mint has an underbite, a crossbite, and 'chalky' teeth. And braces. Bless his heart.

Today was no different. "He has a little cavity again," says Ms. Dentist.

"Why does he have one e-v-e-r-y time we come?" I wanted to know.

"Well," sighs Ms. Dentist, "could be his chalky teeth, could be diet, could be reflux." I had to inquire about the meaning of chalky as it pertains to teeth. New to me. Rough and slightly more porous than they ought to be, in case you were wondering.

Not only had our traditional six month cavity made an appearance, but his seals were worn off his back teeth. Gone.

"Gone??" I was scratching my head by this point in the conversation. "How does that happen?"

"Well," Ms. Dentist sighs again, eyebrows raised and shakes her head, sucks her teeth. "Could be his chalky teeth, could be diet, could be reflux."

"And," she continued, "sometimes it's just hereditary. Do you or his Dad have reflux?"

"Yep. His Dad. And his Grandmother, both Grandfathers, and a couple of aunts and uncles and cousins."

"Well!" Ms. Dentist's arms opened wide, palms up. "There it is. See you next time to fill that cavity and reapply his seals. Have a wonderful day."

There it is my foot. I got my kids by adoption, not by birth. Our entire family tree could be toothless. Every relative on every branch of both our family trees could have hiatal hernias, gastroesophageal reflux, heartburn. (Incidentally, hunky hubby calls relatives that are fairly far out the branches of the family tree 'branch kin'. It makes me cringe when he does, but it does paint a pretty accurate visual image.)

At any rate, no consanguinity. (I love that word.)

In the car after we left Jr. Mint's asking me about reflux - is it the same thing Dad has, what are we gonna do, why do we have to do anything, why does he have to have yet another doctor, can't he just be a person who has reflux?

"No," I said, "you can't. Know why? Because it's fixable. And if we fix it now, you won't have to deal with it in your adult life. You won't need that additional doctor. You won't have to take medication, sleep on a wedge or raise the head of your bed, stay away from spicy food, or have people cart you to the ER when you think you're having a heart attack. It's just like your teeth. We do braces now so you don't have headaches and TMJ and tooth erosion and bite problems when you're grown. You spend a lot more years being grown than being a kid. You want to go into adulthood with every physical advantage we can muster."

And then, then, here's what came out of my mouth to wrap up that snappy little diatribe. "Someday you'll thank me."

Nnnnnnnewwwwwwwww! Did I? Did I, did I really say it? Yeppers. In any event, I digress. That's immaterial to the point, but I felt the need to confess. I've become my Mother. *shudder*

We had forty eleven errands to run after the dentist, for which the first two Jr Mint couldn't eat or drink anything (for thirty minutes after the fluoride treatment). So now I have a Gloomy Gus accompanying me, dreary and dejected, put-upon. Grievous, heinous, shocking information had been uncovered which threw my nine year old into such a deplorable funk I was tempted to cut short the errands.

"Mom! How can you take this so calmly??? I have another cavity, which means another shot in my mouth, more drilling, FAT lips, NO eating for HOURS after, and nowwwwww, on top of all that, I got Dad's REFLUX TOO????? This is big, Mom. I'm nine years old, I have five doctors." (insert big eyeroll here)

"Ok, lets try to approach this from another angle," I respond. "You know how when you have plantar fasciitis during soccer season, and your feet hurt so badly, who is it that knows exactly what to do? And why?"

"Dad. It's Dad. Because he has it too."

"Uh huh. And when your neck is sore after you come home from the Chiropractor, who knows how to put ice packs then heat packs on it and rub it down with muscle rub?"

"Dad. It's Dad. Because he has it too."

"Yessir. And when you have writing assignments and you're sitting at the kitchen table with a pencil in one hand and your head in the other, who is it that knows exactly how you feel and commiserates with you?"

"Dad. It's Dad. He hates writing too. Mom? Do you guess God knew all that when he made me your son?"

Did He ever.

Patriotic Sunday, pew buddies, and unexpected blessings

Yesterday was Patriotic Sunday at church. It's a yearly tradition I look forward to, take Kleenex to, and hustle to arrive early to. That's three dangling prepositions already. Count the grammar mistakes if you will. There will be more. It's called conversational writing.

On Patriotic Sunday there's no sermon. There's no Gloria Patri, no Affirmation of Faith. It's a one hour program of music, narration, pomp and circumstance surrounding the branches of service, their flags, uniforms, and songs. Military attendees are invited to wear their uniforms, and are asked to stand as the congregation honors them. Congregation members who would like to stand in memory of someone do that too. We sing patriotic anthems, we watch the jumbotrons as pictures flash of military family members. Solo, duets and ensemble groups sing to us. It's a one hour "Thank You" dedicated to freedom and those who provide it, secure it, defend it, fight for it, sacrifice for it, and protect it.

If you don't arrive by 10:30 you run the risk of, minimally, not getting to sit in your traditional spot. Much later than that, of not getting to sit at all. We arrived a hair past 10:30 and were able to squeeze in to a pew on the SIDE, not our regular center pew seat. First realization. LOVE the side seats. Don't think I've ever sat in a side church pew. Well. With the exception of a wedding.

So until the service began, I had a respectable amount of space between myself and the semi-elderly woman sitting beside me, whom I didn't know. Sitting beside her however, was a lady I do know. She introduced my immediate neighbor as her mother. We spoke briefly and the mother asked me if I was expecting anyone else, and when I said no, she motioned for me to move closer to her. "I think we're ok," I replied, "but thank you".

Thirty seconds later I felt a polite poke on the shoulder. "Are you expecting anyone else?" No, I replied, but thanks.

A minute and thirty later I felt a pokity poke on the shoulder. "Are you expecting someone?" No ma'am.

Forty five seconds later. Poke poke. "Are you expecting another person?"

I smiled at her and shook my head. No ma'am. We're all here. The sanctuary was getting fuller, noisier, busier. She was getting a little agitated. Her daughter, on the other side of her, patted her leg occasionally and looked at her and smiled often.

I began to take a visual inventory and realization of the probable came quickly. I hadn't noticed anything unusual about her appearance at first glance. Seemed low profile and mainstream enough. Upon second look however, I noticed she was wearing black socks with her black Sunday shoes. One was a crew sock and the other an ankle sock. Her pants bagged unnaturally in the lap, as if she had them on backwards. Her arms and hands were fidgety and she looked about the room with an unusual smile on her face- the kind of smile that says either "I'm uncomfortable here," or "I'm not sure where I am but I think I'm supposed to know".

During the ceremony she sang along with the choir on occasion, giggled at times there was nothing to giggle about, pointed to people on the stage speaking, and poked me several more times to ask if I expected another person. She enjoyed the service.

When the service was over I turned to her and said "It was a pleasure sitting beside you this morning." To which she replied, "Oh hi. Are you expecting anyone else?" No ma'am, have a wonderful week. Bye.

So here's the thing about Alzheimers. There's a wide disconnect between people who live with Alzheimers patients and people who encounter them occasionally. (Pretty obvious statement, huh.) But stay with me. Mama's daughter sat on the other side of her. The daughter is a woman I attend Bible Study with, worked VBS with, and talk to at church fairly frequently. Never has she mentioned her Mom has Alzheimers. During the service she didn't dote on her Mother, shush her or manage her. Mom's behavior and appearance was left of normal but within parameters of acceptable social behavior. She just easily allowed Mom to be herself and enjoy her hour, as daughter enjoyed hers. I expect there will be a time in the future when that is no longer possible for the two.

So I guess there are heroes that have Sunday church services dedicated to them (as well they should) and heroes that sit quietly in the pew with their Mom or daughter. There aren't anthems dedicated to Alheimers victims, there isn't a flag or a uniform. I came to the service looking forward to honoring our military heroes and walked away with a renewed and deeper honor of personal heroes, and the families of all.

As I told my pew neighbor that I had enjoyed sitting with her I put my arm around her shoulders. She immediately leaned in and smiled while looking up at me. Didn't have a clue who I was but she hugged right back. I choose to think "Are you expecting someone" really meant "I enjoyed sitting with you too but my brain won't let me say it right now".

The Life I Lead, and other parallels

I walk early in the mornings. Have to. It's 90 degrees by 10:00am. In order to get in five miles before the Georgia landscape sizzles like shrimp on a spit, I have to hit it by 7:00am. I have several lovely choices for venue, all resplendent with the lush scenery of God's artistry (the deep South version). There are two tracks within two miles. Both are surrounded three sides by tall, old, strong pine trees and 100 year old oaks, dogwoods tucked among them. There's privet within sniffing distance and jasmine crawling up a fencepost. One of them is 1/2 mile track that surrounds my kids' lush green soccer fields, and at 7:00am the sprinklers are giving the grass a drink. Without fail, one errant sprinkler turns around and decides to arc over the track and water the sweaty, overheated walkers/joggers instead. It's a treat.

(My house is a couple of miles behind the tallest trees - the ones behind the concession building.)

The other track is the high school track. I find something oddly comforting about school buildings, and this track's fourth side scenery is the High School. The science department has built a bird commune on the back side of the track at the woods edge. There are at least eight or ten bird houses and as many feeders, and I get serenaded for the duration of my walk when I choose that track. The track itself is the cushy stuff that feels like chipped up tires with Elmers glue caulk, and it's banked - since it is a cross country competitive team track. In order to keep my hips from feeling cattywampus after a few laps, I change direction. Fairly surprising to me that the scenery changes so much in the same spot just because you change directions. Check out the background:

(My house is less than a mile behind that tallest stand of trees.) You can see a tad of the pink track behind the team. I don't have a good picture of this track. I need to snap a good one next time I go. You just gotta see.

The third place is the Silver Comet Trail. Can't describe the scenery because there's just. so. much. Just look.

See what I mean????? So here's the point. At 7:00am when you are blessed enough to be standing at any of these spots pictured and healthy enough to be able to walk for miles, WHAT could be better, I'm askin' you????

It's the perfect opportunity to listen, since fortunately my feet make tracks without me having to think about it much. It may be a trick God uses to keep me from realizing how far I've walked, it may be the environment that's impossible to navigate without understanding the depth of God's presence and pervue, it may be that it's a combination of both those things or others I'm not aware of, but whatever it is, I get a personal lesson from the Creator of me and the environment I'm in. Every. Time. I. Walk.

Today I was aware that since God is my Father, that makes me a Princess. (I didn't come up with that. My very wise friend Bee shared that one with me.) Then I became aware that as selfish, thoughtless, thick, impatient and judgmental as I am I surely must test His patience on a regular basis. That made me chuckle. Until I realized that's the relationship I'm supposed to have with my children. He's the model for parenting. I fail miserably. Regularly. So while I was alone, taking in this lush picture, breathing fresh cool morning air, I could easily see how perfect my children actually are and how I am to parent them based on my Father's example - that I will guide them instead of snapping at them, that I will be understanding of their actions and lovingly take their hand and help them along their way like my Father does for me. It's a valuable lesson for me to learn in the summer, when the three of us are together 24/7 for days at a time.

The Perfect Job. or. If I had a brain.

Occasionally I daydream (we will agree to call it planning for the future) about the perfect job. I think about the time that will come when I'm finished raising my children OK DON'T TELL ME YOU NEVER FINISH, what I mean is when they're older, either next year or through high school or at whatever juncture a light bulb blinks on over my head and I am compelled to once again, after 20+ years, return to the work force.

The one that always rises to the top, my favorite dream job of all, surfaces the same every time. I would be a Personal Chef. Well, Personal COOK since I'm not a chef. (Learned that lesson through the catty, elitist comments of the TRUE *eyeroll* chefs on Food Network). I need to find a family of great enough means who desires to have a cook, meal planner, grocery shopper, snack fixer, party menu planner. In general someone who is in charge of the kitchen - which, natch, would necessarily be a stainless steel chef's kitchen outfitted with industrial appliances and components and a fridge the size of Texas. The size of the fridge would be diminished only by the size of the pantry.

Early, super early in the morning I'd head to the farmers market to gather fresh fruits and vegetables. I'd have to have the family's breakfast planned and readied before I left so when I got back I could cook a fresh, hot breakfast for all. A couple of times a week I would have to make a stop at Whole Foods or Trader Joe's, then a quick run-in at the Natural Food Market once a week or so. Last but not least, I'd stop in at the local organic farm for eggs and meat.

I would spend time each day planning menus, meals, and snacks according to the family's schedule, activities, events, health issues, and preferences. I would have the pantry and fridge stocked with healthy grab-em snacks and drinks.

After dinner was prepared and sitting on ready, I would retire with my cookbooks, laptop, tomorrow's schedule, and a cup of hot tea. And maybe an issue of Whole Living.

And then last week, just last week mind you, a thought so terrifying, so satisfying, incredibly confusing and laughable occurred.

I HAVE THAT JOB NOW.

It's such an irony and it strikes so quickly it makes me shake my head and stop dead in my tracks. I. Have. My. Dream. Job.

So why don't I recognize when I've already got it all? What's the deal with the daydreaming errrrrr, planning for the future? I'm saying it's God's way of making me recognize, on my own time and by allowing me to process information at a speed and depth which my pea brain can absorb, that my God, so great is His wealth of glory in Jesus Christ, that he will fully supply every need of mine. Philippians 4:19.

So if you will excuse me, I have to get back to my job. I've grown slightly fond of the family I'm working for.