Bedtime Stories

I received the most beautiful gift yesterday. It was a long day. A hard day. I haven't slept much for the past week due to all the pain in my knee. I seem to be one of those strange people for whom narcotics has absolutely no effect. I came home from teaching and an intense therapy session yesterday completely wiped out. I collapsed on the couch and didn't even get up to eat dinner.

Caleb, my dear sweet amazing Caleb, came to me about 8:30 and started reading to me. For the next hour, he read me bedtime stories. I'm not sure how "bedtimeish" they were, as they all involved dangerous and deadly creatures, but none the less I was deeply touched by this thoughtful, loving act.

He's only 12. But he knows how to stop Mommy's moaning. For that hour I felt no pain. Only intense love and bonding with my son.

For the first night I only woke a few times with pain. And I felt rested in the morning. Ready to face a long day of teaching.

And I can't wait to get home, to be with my kids. Caleb did threaten me though, that he was going to have to read me his gun safety book tonight because he needs to study. Maybe I'll stop by the library and pick up this book instead.

Thoughts from the Caribou

Drinking my first carmel cooler of the season. I'm in one of those really reflective, sensitive times of life where everything seems to take on bigger meaning that it should. I'm not sure if that will make sense to anyone but me.

I've been dreaming alot lately . . . about Africa, of all places. Twenty years ago when I first started thinking seriously about mission work I was ready to go anywhere but Africa. I'm not sure why, but Africa never really gripped my heart like Central Asia did.

But these days, Africa is all I can think about. Not sure why. During the holiday season I bought a new calendar. I passed over the adorable Boxer puppy one and went zooming straight into one that shows scenes from Africa. I simply had to have it. It's hanging on the wall of my office.

I am drawn this semester in a way I never had before towards my African students. Many of them are refugees from wars in places like the Sudan or Somalia. One young woman told me last week that she has not seen her parents for TEN years. They sent her to America along with her older sister and younger brother. They raised themselves, here in America.

There's a lot of turmoil right now in our city high schools between the Somali and American born students. So much hatred. So much misunderstanding. It simply breaks my heart to hear the stories my students tell me of what happens in their high schools. The adults in their world don't know what to do -- or aren't willing to do it. I'm not sure which. I feel drawn to do something . . . but what? Could I really be here, in this place, with Africa on my heart to do something in my city, 1000s of miles away from Africa?

I'm thinking. It feels a little dangerous to be thinking the way I am thinking. Could I dare to dream that my heart for missions wasn't completely shattered years ago?

Moms shouldn't climb trees

I know that now.

But on Easter Sunday, bouyed by a sassy new haircut and beautiful 60 degree weather, I climbed anyway. It might also have something to do with the words my twins used to describe me -- "MIDDLE-AGED".

Them's fighting words to me. So climb I did. My first attempt -- oh so very sucessful.







My second attempt . . . successful once again. Note that I am HIGHER than Caleb.

The problem is that while I can actually climb trees with the best of them, I don't do so well going down. I slipped on the way down and fell -- much to the delight of my entire family who was watching.

Now I'm in a brace from thigh to ankle, eating pain killers like they are candy, and using crutches. I also got to spend some quality time alone during my MRI.

I go to the doctor this week to find out what's next.

It hurts for this mom to climb to trees.

But you can bet that once this injury heals I'll be up there again!

Back, at least for now

It's been a rough year. I stopped writing just after Ellie's hotel, when our beloved boxer, Jack, died of unknown causes. We had just spend an unheard of amount of money to save him and he died anyway.

For months I couldn't write, I couldn't talk, and I couldn't see God.

Then I got depressed. More depressed than I have ever been. I don't even like to think back to that darkness.

I stopped talking to everyone. I closed myself off and listened only to the craziness of my mind.

When I finally reached out for help, my trusted therapist said to me, "I think you might be angry that you got depressed again. Does this feel like a failure to you?"

Um. Yeah. A big fat failure. It felt like a failure of grace and of everything that I had been learning.

Now I'm learning to be a bit more gentle with myself and with others. I'm certainly not very good at being nonjudgmental towards myself. It seems that I feel that everyone is worthy of grace and compassion but me.

But I'm learning that when I live with that as my truth, I have only made an idol out of perfection, which is not such a great God to serve.

So I'm back to writing again. At least for now, that is.