Job's wife

Do you ever think about Job's wife? Poor gal. She is the one who went down in history for asking her husband why he didn't just, "Curse God and die." I'll bet she wished that she could have a do-over of that phrase!

Years ago, my Wonderful Granny drew my attention to something about Job's wife that I had never noticed before.

She pointed out that, though the wife isn't mentioned again in the rest of the book of Job, she is alluded to. Remember that Job had another 7 sons and 3 daughters? My Granny pointed out that staying with Job, and going on to rear a second family, took a ton of courage.

I was thinking about this.

That woman had every reason to despair. What would you do if all your kids died, you went bankrupt, and your husband got really ill? Her response, though wrong, was not much different than what I might do. But, she stuck it out.
I have days where I am not at all happy with what God has dealt to me. It not so hard to be angry with God, nor to fight against Him.
But, like Job's wife, it's important to stick around for the end of the story.
Her story did not end in misery; It ended in great blessing and joy.
Who knows where your story will end? One thing is certain, and that is that your story isn't over yet.
So there is hope.

Fickle

Today is my day, and I am determined that it shall be a good one. Because, honestly, why bother having a day at all, if it is not going to make you happy? If you set out to have a bad day, you should just go right back to your bed and pull the sheets over your ever-loving head.

Last night I read an entire book.
It was about this single mom who had been abandoned, and she was totally judged for being a divorcee, and how her son only wanted the approval of his lousy dad, and how she slaved to put him through college, and he pretty much never appreciated her until after she died. By midnight, I was pretty much suicidal.
Mornings are good for me, though. I always seem to wake up all happy and stuff. This morning I was reading about David dancing before the Ark of the Lord, and then I read about Job for a while. Plus, I took a closer look at all the things from that novel that cut into my heart, and here is what I decided:
Life is full of real bad stuff. For you and I, we get to decided what we do with that stuff. I am going to rejoice. You?
Seriously.
I want to be able to look at the situations in which I find myself. To look at them square and steady. If they're really awful, then they're awful. Let's call it what it is.
I want to always be realistic so that my response springs from a true understanding of things. Then, if I chose Joy, it's because there's really joy to be found, and not because I am flippant.
God is Good, right?
My situation is anything but awful. I live a totally charmed life. How many single moms do you know who can say that? We are blessed beyond measure!
So, then, you see why I am off to have a good day.
You have a good day, too!

Painting with a Sanguine

Introducing: the dark taupe from the hallway!
I started painting on a whim, and without a ladder. Then I got distracted. Someday soon I will move the piano and bring the ladder in from the garage. Then I shall resume.
Until then, don't look up.







My love-r-ly Opera House Red from the bathroom is on it's way out. I decided to begin covering it with a primer, so that I can explore my options there. Actually, I have a wallpaper that I would like to hang in there. But I might decided to paint, instead. Who knows?
















I did the whole thing with a brush instead of a roller. Just because I was having fun.
Do you know, somewhere in this process, I went into the boys bathroom and worked up their paint, also? They just needed a little freshening in there. To cover the urine smell. I wiped the walls and floor with bleach, and then painted.
I didn't take photos of their bathroom, though.






Yesterday was quite productive. Well see what I do with today.

In the Beginning

We were married in 1992, September.

I'd met him back in January, at the single's group at church. He walked with a swagger. My mother and I were single, and we thought that the single's group would make for a fun outing.

It was.

The men were buzzing bees. The women were flowers.

I noticed him right away, when he sauntered into the room. He was one of the few men in the room who was neither balding, nor overzealous. He sat at our table.

Mother struck up a conversation with him, or he with her, I don't remember. He had a slow way of speaking, and a lazy smile that lit up his eyes. I told my mother later that my mind had time to wander and return before he finished a sentance. He drove me nuts.

He hung around, and became our friend, through the rest of that winter. By Spring break he announced that he was going to marry me. I rolled my eyes. We weren't even dating.

We were engaged in May.

And why not? He was handsome. He spent loads of time with my family. He owned his own business and his own home. He loved the Lord, he knew his bible well, he served in ministry. All those checked off my list.

My friend Cathy said, "I hate you for marrying a home owner." By which she meant that I was marrying a grown up and established man. I was lucky. (Do you remember that, Cath?)

It was the beginning of the loneliest days of my life. I was twenty-two years old.

Sabbath

So, Lisa mentioned something at house church that I hadn't considered. We were discussing Sabbath. Is it a mandate for today? Her observation was that Sabbath preceeds the nation of Israel. Ergo Sabbath is a human-race thing and not just a Law thing.
What do you think?

This and That...and the other

I went to a real church again. Who wore panyhose and a vintage hat? Yep. I do things like that in public. And I wonder why I can't get a date.
This church is an enormous place. They have a campus. Each family is segregated by age before they even walk in the door. I have strong feelings about that, as you may recall. But I let D' go to a class with friends, anyway. That way I don't get too terribly self-rightous.

Yesterday, I got a wild hair and began painting my hallway. Painting is so much fun for me, and I never bother about details. This means that I do not tape. Ever. If you are the least bit particular about things being done correctly, then never paint with me. I'll make you crazy. I use a couple of old towels for drop-cloths, and I just move them around as I go. It makes for zero prep time and hardly any clean up. The color is a dark taupe, cool rather than warm. I bought it for $5 off the mismixed shell at fred Meyer. Love that shelf!
My house is an Easter basket of color. Each room is different. Some rooms have all different colored walls. Pink and chocolate, mauve and taupe, Terra cotta, blue, orange, green, and my bathroom is Opera House Red. Although, one day in a fit of decorating, I am going to hang green and white wallpaper in my bathroom instead. One of these days.

I was going to tell you about my publisher. Except, wait, I don't have one. Other than that minor detail, the book idea is going great! I was thinking about all the fantastic books that I am going to write so that I can support the kids and myself in the lap of luxury. I was going to begin with one on Poverty. Ironic, no? I could write on marriage and divorce and dating. I could write on living with an addict (a variety of addictions, take your pick). I could write on homosexuality, or infidelity, then one on single parenting, and then maybe do a devotional. Mostly non-fiction, I think.

The one thing I am not doing, apparently, is getting anything done. I need to go finish painting, or clean the house. Happy Sunday, friends.

And the world keeps right on spinning

You know how sometimes you write and erase, and write and erase? Because appropriate articulation is just lacking?
That would be now.
I had a weird experience tonight. I didn't do such a good job of expressing myself to someone with whom I was speaking earlier, so I am mulling it around in my brain to figure out how to better say what I mean.

Did you see the movie Walk the Line? It's the whole Jonny Cash story.
He decends into drug addiction.
There's this scene where his wife is losing it and yelling and crying, and he pins her to the floor in a fit of temper....when they both realize that the kids are standing there. The first time I saw that, in the theatre, I felt like my most private moment had been displayed on screen. Remember my diary on the mattress in the Meth lab? It was like that.
I cried in the produce section of Fred Meyer after the movie, because it welled up, and I felt it all again. (I'm not really a crier)

So tonight, I was in the local homeless shelter.
(What? You don't go there on Friday nights? Perplexing.)
It was a volunteer opportunity. There were several of us.
Anyway...
My husband used to be a regular there. You know, after he grew up to be a drug addict, he ended up living on the streets. We used to pick him up, and buy him a burger sometimes. One time we bought him shoes, because his had been stolen.
He didn't shower very often in those days. My kids remember.

Tonight, M' and I were helping to serve dinner to these guys who smelled like alcohol. They were hungry, and desperation was in their eyes. (They also had cell phones, which was odd.) Every man there was my husband.
Did they have families somewhere who were needing them?
What had they walked away from to be there?
I was shell-shocked.
The world retreated in a moment and the sounds were crystal clear, but distant. Sharp and hazy at the same time. I wanted to go and think somewhere. Cry, maybe.
"How ya doin' tonight? Are you hungry?" I asked as I slopped more tater-tots on a plate.
I was there with a friend who was chatting merrily, as though this was the very most normal thing on the planet. She was happy, and beautiful, and comfortable as can be. Her words were a hummmmm.
And my ex-brother-in-law walked by.
"How ya doin"? How ya been?" What do you say when you see someone you know at the local homeless shelter?
"I'm between jobs right now," He told me. Apparently so.

Past meets Present.

My life right now is good, you know? I love my little life. Those moments that wisk me into memory are shocking. It's like I somehow forgot that my life was all tangled with a homeless drug addict. That I lived that.
I think it's important.
I don't want to forget. I don't want to get used to those experiences, as if that was my life, and it's not big deal.
It was a big deal.
It is a big deal.
It matters.
And the feelings are big. I never want them to diminish.
I want to embrace the power of that, and be made effective.

The Woman I've Become

I am a failure, and chocolate won't help.
When my children were about, I don't know... born... I set goals for their lives.
I did.
Sometimes I get a little freakish in this department. I think I come by it honestly, but I can't say specifically where I aquired my overbearing need for Ultimate Control. Because my Mother, whom I love, reads this blog. (Hi Momma. Of course I wasn't refering to you. You are shy and retiring.)

I mapped out the boy's general acedemic career from age 5 until age 13, and then new goals between 13 and 18.
I touched on their spiritual growth, athletic prowess, and community service.
They are the modest, well-thought-out goals that you would expect from me.

M' is due to turn 13 NEXT MONTH.
He is not a black belt, he does not speak Latin fluently, he cannot compute any Algebraic equations, and the boy doesn't ever pick up after himself. He is not headed for an early high school graduation, nor does he care.
How is he ever going to be a prominent historical figure within the United States Government?
He's supposed to be studying biblical Greek while discipling a group of young men and learning Rhetoric and Oration. And coaxing old ladies cats out of trees.
Do you know what he likes? Girls, violent team sports, and YouTube. Plus, he is recruiting groupies for the garage band he hopes to begin.
He is so cute, you wouldn't believe it.

I still have a chance with D." By that, I mean that there is still time to re-write my goals. Although, West Point is where he is aimed, and he may yet make it.

Don't get me wrong.
I love these two; I even like them.

It's just that I am not half the mom I wanted to be.

They are twice the young men I ever imagined they could be.

A Community of Strangers

My world is expanding bit by bit, despite all of my efforts to contain it. These children of mine keep dragging me into unfamiliar territory.
Tonight it was a meeting for Lacrosse moms.
I don't like to meet new people, and I don't like to be in a room of people that I don't know and don't like. Do you see how many times I said "don't"?
My social circle is very spiritual, in the sense that it includes roughly 12 people, with an inner circle of 3. Give or take a few. Ok, so it's like 24 and 6, but work with me here. Jesus had 12 friends with an inner circle of 3. See how I am working this?
I like my few friends.
These are all the people I need. These are the folks that I talk to, and worship with, and sin with. I have no desire to meet anyone else, ever.
I'm a little shy, if you want to know the truth.
So, there I was, at this Lacrosse meeting thingy, around a table with self confident moms who have their nails done. All I wanted to do was to slide under the table and suck my thumb. Instead, I sat there hating them, and smiling, and nodding in the way I do that says, "I want to be your best friend."
And I got out of there fast as you please once the meeting was done.
I was telling Kara about this on the phone. I told her about all these perfect moms with expensive clothing and employed husbands. She said that she thinks those are the very same women who go to ballet. It's all the same perfect women at these things. She said it's the Kids Sports Community.
I'll be all lovey-dovey with this crowd in two months. Right?
It's only strangers that I dislike.

No personality at all

Mother used to tell me that I must be comfortable when alone with my thoughts. She taught me that a person who couldn't stand their own quiet company was not a person at peace.

That advice has served me very well.

I find my ability to be still and quiet is a fabulous barometer of my inner condition. Sometimes, just to keep my finger on the pulse in myself, I sit and do nothing but think. Very. still. TV doesn't count, by the way. Neither does music. I sit in a silent place and....be. Sometimes my mind wanders. Sometimes I think about what's before me. Sometimes I end up drifting off to sleep. The important part of the excercise is stillness and contemplation.
This is when compromise can announce itself to my concienceness.
Or when nagging sins make me restless.
But, even more importantly, this is when my mind can rest.
What is the texture of silence? The color? The sound? The size? Feel it's fullness.
You may think that your mind will shrink under the weight of it, but that just isn't true! Your mind expands. You can finally hear. Feel. See.

Music doesn't totally rest my mind. It can prepare me to rest, but that's not the same thing. ( And when you put on music that you love...really listen to it. Hear the notes and the swells and the language. Let the words come into you and change you. This is the way to hear music. Do not let it be consigned to background noise!)
TV is useless, in my opinion. You are not resting your mind when you are watching that innane drivel. Don't even argue with me on this point, I can't abide it. Throw the blasted thing away.

You go sit on your bed, when your room is all clean of clutter, and think. Just Be.
Or sit on a hillside with the persperation on your brow, and the wind in your ears. After you've done that for an hour, then you tell me that American Idol is a rest and a benefit to you. I will so call you a liar to your face.

When I find that I have avoided my own company for a while, I see a serious red flag. When I try to sit, but I'm too restless to be still, I know there's trouble.
There's no help for it, but to face into the fray and confont the tempest. For tempest it is. Your mind is bound and held captive by business and noise. Be free. Be honest in the privacy of you. Beauty and expanding silence will create in you a far greater capsule for solitude, and the truest effectiveness that you have ever known.

Funny for an extrovert, no?

Abandon Ship!

The sky has been blue and cloudless for something like 9 days in a row. I interpret this to mean that summertime is very nearly here. Ergo, I may quit homeschooling and go immediately to Eagle Island. And stay there until Fall.
The ice over the surface of the swimming hole at Eagle Island somewhat dissuades me. But I could overcome that.
Eagle Island is what we do all Summer. It's a state park with a big puddle to swim in, and fish in, and catch big ugly bull frogs in. They have a waterslide that's open Thursday thru the weekend. They have bar-B-Que thingys, and a frisby golf course, and a lovely walking path. You would hate it.
The arrival of Spring always makes me want to do two things:
1. Shrug responsibility to be outside.
and
2. Spend my tax return.

This has been a brief winter. Odd, that. I have worked too much and had no money, which seems a cruel irony. One consequence is that I have not been skiing. I like skiing. The only time I have been outside all winter, is when I have had to shovel the snow from the driveway.

In truth, I have nothing of substance to say this morning. Could you tell?

In my Father's House...

I went to a funeral today. I love funerals. Ok, maybe that's an overstatement. Perhaps it's truer to say that I love funerals of those who have lived well, and are loved much.
Them's good Gatherings.
My friend, Bill, gave me a great big hug there and said, "This is a little bit like Heaven." And I think I agree with him. The room was full of familiar faces; men and women who have been in my world for as long as I can remember. Won't heaven be like that? Familiar people, family, Heros of the faith....and lots of calorie-free food.
This gentleman who died was not someone I knew well, but I've known of him since time began. He and his wife were in my parent's circle, and I went to school with his daughters.
These are people who know Jesus, so they know what life is about, and they know what it is to die. There's something to be said for that.
Solomon, the ancient sage, said something about wisdom in the house of mourning. I've been in the house of mourning. Heck, I've been in the inner sanctum of the House of Mourning. I do not envy the trail of grief that those close to this man will traverse over the next weeks and months. But they do not grieve as those who have no hope.
We have Time Eternal to live, and to become, and to expand. All that we are, is but a springboard into what we shall be.
And death is not the end.
The air we breathe on this temporal plane is restrictive. The highest joy our world knows is but a hint of Heaven. We are eternal creatures, you and I.

Cleaning up after the kids

French fries are not good for a girl's figure.
I have had approximately 78 servings this evening.
With Fry Sauce.
Why did the kids leave so much behind?
It's this alarming Carbohydrate Psycosis that hits me on a cyclical basis. I am frenzied. Some women eat chocolate...wait, that's a fantastic idea. Usually I am more of a salty/fried food girl.
Every few weeks I eat until I can no longer keep my jeans buttoned. Then I stager to my bed and moan in misery until sleep o'rtakes me. I think of it as a sort of hormone replacement therapy.
Yesterday I ate three exceedingly large bowls of Cheerios with sugar. For a snack.
Today it was brushetta, trout, mashed potatoes, veggies, and cheesecake. And then curly fries.
It's a force of nature to large to fight.
And I am struggling to breathe. Where is the elastic waistband?

Movie Review, and Priorities, Too

I saw the Bucket List last night with Patsy (paj). Very fun.
I should totally do a Saturday movie review every week. That way I would be commited to seeing a current movie every Friday night. And then my knowledge of pop culture would be on the rise.
Two guys are dying of cancer, and they make a list of all they want to do in the short time they have left. Stuff like skydiving, getting a tattoo, and seeing the Pyramids.
One of the men is a selfish jerk who has lived only to fulfill his various appetites. The other is a selfless man of faith and family. It's a well written and well acted movie. It had me weepy, then laughing, by turns.
If I was confronted with a year to live, I wonder what I'd do....? Patti and I talked about that over dinner. (Paj, Patti, and Patsy are all one and the same person. Just so you know.) She wouldn't get a tattoo, I might. We would skydive. We can't afford to see the Pyramids. I thought I should make a series of DVDs for my children, or write a bunch to them about my life, and all that I want to have them know. Most of what I would do would focus on my kids and my extended family, I think.
You can't really face such a question without being confronted with your own priorities. It's interesting.
In fact, even before we even saw the movie yesterday, we decided to make a list of the Top 10 Things we know that God has told us to do.
For me, the excercise started with stuff like parenting, reading my bible...stuff like that. Then I decided that was sort of over-generalized, and I started to get specific. I wish I could keep these things in mind, and thereby eliminate some of the clutter from my little life.
After honing in on my list for a while, I found that everything God wants of me, fits pretty well into three categories:
1. Seek Him first.
2. Parent well.
3. Love People.
There are some very specific things on my personal list, but I am not going to give you those sordid details.
It's something that warrants more consideration, this question of where my daily energy should go. I waste so much time and money and food and space. It's a squandering of resources. It's a stewardship issue, then. Isn't it?

The Love of Money

Money is green
money is fun
If you have money
You can give me some

I was reading in Proverbs this morning, and the ones about how it's better to be poor and peaceful, than rich and happy, kept leaping off the page to assult my mind.
Very annoying.
So, I flipped at random to the New Testament, where my eyes happened upon the end of 1 Timothy. The topic? Yeah, money. The whole thing about the love of money being the root of all kinds of trouble.
Now, because I am smart as a whip, I began to recognize a pattern here. Momma didn't raise no fool.
I had occasion this week to see how very succeptable I am to the love of money. I guess I had fancied myself beyond that. You know, on account of how I have none.
So, I began poking around inside my heart, and saw lots and lots of the love of money thing going on. Then I looked at my credit card, and it was irritatingly boasting the results of my attempts to have money.
All I want is a new car, and pretty furniture, and cool clothes, and I want to eat out a lot. I want my kids to have all kinds of sports and music and......
See?
If the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil, then call me Potato. Or Potato. I'm a root, baby. The flower? My bloomin' credit card.
I don't have a gazillion dollars of debt, or anything. I just have evidence that I do not restrain my living to within my means. Who really wants to fly below the poverty radar?
I was pondering the adjustments I will need to make to ensure that I can live within my budget, and I don't like it.
Why? I somehow think I deserve to have ....what? New clothes? Sushie?
I am a Single mom, who is provided for by The God of Creation. Can you even believe that I would complain about not being provided for in the style to which I'd like to become accustomed?
I totally need to get over myself.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch

Today's story is ever so much happier than yesterday's. But yesterday's story is rather dramatic, so I'll tell you bits and pieces from time to time. All true, you know. But, for the moment I shall abandon the past, and focus on the serendipities of today.

I am reading Jane Eyre for the first time. These classics tend to surprise me, as I always expect them to be dry and boring. This is a fantastic book. In fact, I am learning all manner of new words (which is on of my favorite things in the whole world, next to exquisite wine with a dear friend).

Inanition-Which basically means that I haven't eaten in a while, so I am empty with no energy. As in, "Kara is given to bouts of inanition. Someone should feed that girl."

Hebdomadal- which means, according to Webster and Friends, that something occurs weekly. I'd say, "House church is a glorious hebdomadal joy." And you would have no idea what I meant.

I read with a dictionary close at hand, and a highlighter pen. It makes me so happy.

I have a list of books that I'd really like to read. The truth is that I have no time at all for such delicious leisure. When I am forced to consume a book through stolen snippets of time, such as reading at stoplights, I find that I lose my momentum and end up abandoning the pursuit. The best way to read, in my opinion, is fully and with abandon. I would take a book and an afternoon, and immerse myself entirely in that alternate reality.
The only reason that I am reading this at all, is because Johanna made me. She was right here, with the book before her, and she read an irresistable quote.
The quote is from the Preface, and Charlotte Bronte herself wrote it.
Will you indulge me?
"Conventionality is not morality. Self-rightousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last.To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns. These things and deeds are diametrically opposed; they are as distinct as vice from virtue." There was more to it, and it thrilled my soul. You can go and read it for yourself, I am not going to keep typing the whole thing (tempted though I may be).
Johanna sucked me in with that quote, then she gave me the book. Just like that. I could take the next year to read it, if I must read in the car. How I wish for a quiet afternoon!

If I ever find myself rich, I shall read every single day.

More of my story

There were maggots on the dog. He was old, but he was not dead, and so the maggots were wrong. Yet, there they were, eating.

The dog had belonged to Dan.

Dan was dead.

Long since, in fact.

Like Marley and the Ghost of Christmas Past, all of yesterday was wrapped up in today. Dan had loved this dog. My sisters were still quite young, and their rememberance of Dan, their daddy, was fond. His dog was a link to him, the dog's death was a new grief.

Chloroform over his nose took the horror of the maggot's dinner into a new kind of pain. The girls were in tears.

We got shovels from the garage.

For my part, I had gone to Mother's that day for a distraction. It was sunny that day; was it Spring? Things were bad for me, and worse by the moment. Like that dog, I was being eaten alive.

The question of the dog was easily resolved. Unplesant, of course, but not hard to discern. So we began to dig.

My situation was less clear.

Fresh in my mind was the phone conversation, in which I had discovered yet one more detail in a string of unimaginable revelations. Today I had learned that my husband was living with a woman and her four children between his stints in jail. His own wife and two children had lost their appeal.

And so I dug.
The death of the dog had unlocked a fountain of tears that I did not need to hide. It felt good to apply my physical strength and aggression. We attacked the hole in silence, pausing from time to time, to wipe away the sweat or the tears.

A piece of my story, PG-13

I pulled up and parked with a heavy heart. This was not where I wanted to spend my day.
Looking back now, I do not recall who was watching the boys for me. Someone, surely; they were so young at the time. 2 and 4, I think.
The building looked unkept.
I had been forbidden to come here for quite some months. We owned the business, but as my husband had grown more secretive, he had insisted that I stay away from his work. With him in jail, it seemed important for me to come down in spite of his wishes, to assess the situation. How else was I going to pay the bills?
As I pushed the door in, a bell sounded somewhere in back. An unfamiliar woman stood at the counter copying information from the computer onto CDs. I offered a shaky smile.
"Hi. I am Kelly."
She kept feeding the computer. She looked different than the ladies I knew. Hard. Used up.

The foyer was filthy. I took a seat and chatted with the woman. If I was to be effective here, I figured I should get to know her.

My mindset was foggy, to say the least. My entire world was turned on it's ear, and I had no frame of reference to process all that I found around me. As a young mother with two boys and a bible study, my situation was absurd. Chatting with the woman at the computer I found my mind registering information from my surroundings with a disjointed neccessity. There were mouse droppings on the floor.

I excused myself to explore a bit. If the foyer was filthy, the back was unimaginable squallor. There was a long-dead mouse on the microwave. A mason jar of urine in the fridge. Layers of dust and grime coating every surface. It was way too quiet.

This was a bustling consumer electronics repair business. This room had been filled to bursting with men and equiptment. Laughter and phone calls and good natured chiding. My husband had run a pleasant environment. His emplyees were happy, and they worked hard for him. Good men, all. Not only were there empty chairs, but empty counters as well. Where were the tools and electronics?
At the back of the room, I noticed that the pull-down ladder to the attic was extended to the floor. With a glance over my shoulder, I could see that the woman was not interested in my wanderings. I began to ascend the rungs.

I had never been up here before. It was a good sized space with low rafters. The bare lightbulb was on. It took me a few moments to register my surroundings, it looked for all the world like a bad movie set. There was a dirty mattress on the floor in the center of the room. Upon the matress was a solitary book. Several of the rafters had been employed as shelves, and they held an odd assortment of chemicals. There was a hot plate. Maybe two, I don't remember for sure. There were a couple of buckets, too, coated with some resudue from a recent mixture.

My insides were spinning again, like the balance of all reality was no longer ruled by gravity. This was a familiar feeling, by this point. It was my new state of being.
It had begun, in earnest, the day that the policeman knocked at my door with the request to search my home. Was that a month prior to my search at the business? Three months? I no longer remember the time frame. That poor policeman! He had to give substance to the shadowy fears which had haunted my marriage. Meth was the something I had been unable to identify. And all I knew shifted into nightmare, as my world disolved into horror.

And now I stood in the attic. The woman downstairs was on the phone. I could hear her lowered voice more readily up here.
I walked over to the mattress.
The book in the center had a unicorn on the front. I recognized that book; but how did it get here?! This was my diary from when I was about 12. I opened at random and began to read the dramatic drivel of a preteen me.
For some reason, this was personal enough to shock me into myself.
These people had read my diary.
I clutched the book close to my heart, and decended the stairs with a purpose.
I marched right up to the woman at the front counter and announced that I was calling the police. I told her that I had found the Meth lab upstairs, and I dialed 911.

How do you spell "parenthetical"?

Ah, the joy of being a single mom.
There are joys, you know. Blessed serendipities that you may never have considered. If I tell you what they are, you may well be in danger of envy.
Proceed at your own peril.
(When was the last time you used "peril" in a sentance? Try and work in in today. You will just swell with joy at your expanding volcabulary)
(Which, oddly enough, makes me think again of themed blogs. I could totally have one of those Word of the Day themed blogs. I would suggest a new word for you to add to your vocabulary, and I'd use it in a sentance for you. I'd tell you how to use it to best advantage, and that would make me very happy.)
(This is kind of a parenthetical blog entry; huh?)
So, back to our story:
10 random reasons I like being a single mom (and these are not in any particular order)
1. No one pulls the covers
2. I don't have to shave my legs if I don't want to.
3. I can fix cereal for dinner. And lunch. And, you know, pretty much all day.
4. I can buy it if I want to. No matter what 'it' is.
5. No man overrides my movie choices.
6. I can parent any way I want.
7. I can decorate in pink and lace.
8. No one tries to kiss me when I haven't brushed my teeth.
9. The entire pot of coffee is mine
10. I don't have to clean if I don't want to.

(Come to think of it, I have a diametrically opposed opinion to share as well)
10 random reasons I hate being a single mom
1. No one shares the covers
2. No one cares if I shave my legs. Or shower daily.
3. No man looks forward to my cooking.
4. No one pays for what I want to buy!
5. No man takes me to the movies. Or snuggles up to watch a movie at home.
6. No one helps me figure out how to parent boys.
7. There is no Honey for my "honey-do list".
8. No one tries...anything when I haven't brushed my teeth. Nor when I have brushed them.
9. No one brings me coffee
10. No one helps me clean. (no, the boys don't count)

Spell check is still not working.

Is it true that I have not spoken with you for nearly a week? How did that happen?
Johanna left me this morning, and I am quite broken-hearted.
The weekend was a flurry of activity. I had Johanna, and Kara's kids, and my own children with a basketball game, LaCrosse sign-ups, and house church. Plus, my garage door got repaired by some mysterious benefactor. (Thanks; a thousand thanks!)
The house is a mess, and I am needing a vacation.

Last night at house church we were discussing three chapters of Isaiah. Chapter 54 particularly moves me. You know how sometimes you can see something deeply profound and inspiring.....and nobody else sees it?
I have been deeply impacted by this passage. It has shaped the majority of my decisions and guided the line of my thinking for the past decade of my life. In my head, it's a really huge thing. But there I sat, surrounded by my friends, and I was at a loss for words to convey the importance of this well.
I am often frusterated by this inadequacy within myself.
When I am writting, I can chose elaborate words, and flowery sentance structure, to poetically and dramatically express the thoughts I wish to convey. But when I am talking, it just sounds goofy to speak that way. I sound goofy enough just regularly.
In fact, whenever I have to hear my voice recorded, I roll my eyes. It's true. I talk funny.
There's just so much to express!
What means more? "Have a nice day." or "My beautiful friend, have a glorious, magnificent, amazing day!"
Which would you rather hear? "Sorry." or "My heart is shredded when I consider the anguish I've caused you! Can you possibly forgive me?"
It's Anne of Green Gables, isn't it?
Alas!
I was born into the wrong century.

As for you, I pray that your day is magical beyond your wildest imaginings.

Complaining

Mornings are, on the whole, quite glorious. I wake with a song on my lips and abounding joy within my heart. I'm told it's rather annoying.

Come noon, however, I deflate rapidly.

This was one of those days where I began writing a blog entry at some very early hour, and was then distracted by kids and breakfast and the dishes. By the time I returned, the writing seemed smarmy and overly gleeful. It was something about the Millenial Kingdom and enthusiastic me.



Johanna is still here at my house for her visit, and I am enjoying her company. On the most basic of levels, I love having a grown-up in the house. She does the dishes without being asked, and is willing to carry on a conversation. She has fantastic jewelry, which she is willing to let me borrow. She can give great back rubs, and she can also cook. I pretty much want to marry her.

My camera has betrayed me. I have attempted to take photos of all the hoopla around here, but they keep coming out blurry. I got a great one of our feet, though.
The other problem I have encountered here is that I can't figure out how to get them posted on my blog. I switched to high speed internet a little while ago, and everything changed. Now I can't do pictures the way I used to, and so you have no idea what we all look like anymore. I am irritated about this.
Spell check is also not working. How is this possible?

Mostly, I guess my mood deflated long before noon today. That, and I need more coffee.
I'll write again after a visit from the Muse.

Bragging rights

I totally lost a few things.
22 things.
Pounds, actually.
Isn't that just something?
I lost 10 back this summer. Then I leveled off for a bit. Since January 1st I sort of misplaced 12 more.
The strangest thing about it is that I really haven't been excercising, nor trying very hard. My friends say it's a stress related thing, and I think there's something to that. I have been eliminating a whole huge stress factor from my life, so I am not eating to cope.
I am eating differently.
Part of it could be that I edged my weight up bit by bit last winter, with the whole being-on-crutches thing. And now I am inching back to normal.
22 is a lot. Was I really that...um.....curvy? Ok, don't answer that. I saw photos of me, and it was not a good thing. I feel better now. Lots better.
Just imagine what would happen if I would excercise!

When I grow up

I have been toying with the idea of going back to school. My parents always advised me to have an education to "fall back on" in case something happened to my husband, or I couldn't find a suitable sugar daddy. All in all, that was pretty solid advice, as it turns out. Too bad I didn't pursue it back when Daddy wanted to pay.

Does anyone ever aspire to becoming a poverty-stricken single mom? No, I think not.

School is really boring. I think that subjests like math, for instance, are highly overrated. My cell phone can calculate percentage off, when stuff is on sale. What more do I need?

History is facinating. My limited experience seems to indicate that History Teachers are not. Seriously, I have never had a history instructor who taught with anything like passion and wonder. That's a shame, really.

Languages thrill me. We've discussed that before. But I don't really know any. Which puts a damper on it. I mean, I know English. I like to compare Greek and Latin to English and research the roots of words I love.
And then it hit me!
People who love words are called Philologists. That is what I want to be when I grow up! I don't know if there's a big market for them, and I don't know what the pay scale is. I'll go do a google search here in a minute. Plus, where do you go to school for that? Do you get a B.A. in Philology? Are there scholarships for that? Does it matter that I have a spelling handicap?

I read a book a few years ago about the making of one of the English dictionaries, and that is where I learned about Philologists. I knew, then, that it would be a fun thing for me. But at the time, it hadn't really occured to me to pursue some manner of education.

Now that it's occurred to me, I may need to marinate in the idea for a few years. You can't rush these things.

Quiet

I've lots to think about again; How do people spend so much time without employing their brains?
I, persoanlly, love to think. I love to observe the process in others as well. Particularly those who do it well. The process is ever so much more interesting than the conclusion.
I quit teaching a bible study some time ago. Has it been a year? I taught for 10. Years, that is. Every week.
I love to teach. I love the research and study that it takes to be prepared to teach. I miss it, in fact. That is a fabulous way to watch people think and learn and grow.
When I quit, one of my friends was deeply alarmed. He was certain I was making a dreadful mistake. As if walking away from that was equivelant to forsaking my faith. But it was absolutely the right thing to do.
These days, I am not in "ministry." And I haven't walked away from my faith.

One of the things that I have learned while thinking about this whole thing, is how productive it can be to do nothing.
I can do niothing at all while being enormously selfish. I do it all the time. It's the "doing nothing" where I am actively avoiding obligation and commitment and productivity. It's lazy.

Or, I can "do nothing" with a sense of expectation and preparedness. You know in the old western movies where the Indian Guide tells all the cowboys to shhhhhh, and he puts his ear to the ground? That's what I am talking about. It's the deliberate Hush that affords opportunity for me to put my ear to the ground in expectation. It's the stillness that allows me to listen. How different this is from lazyness!
Then I am ready when opportunity presents itself. When something needs to be done, I am available.
"In Quietness and Confidence shall be your strength."
It's not that my days have suddenly become uncluttered and my calendar is clear. It's more that I am thinking about listening and being still. It's more inside than out. It's a good thing.
A very good thing.