This Girl...

She is my middle child. My snuggler. My sidekick.

She collects trash for her special projects. Every disposed toilet paper roll or cardboard box becomes a cell phone or doll house.

And oh, how this girl loves tape.

When she is proud of herself, she effervesces. Beams. Glows.

When I pick her up at preschool, she runs to me, arms open wide, yelling, "Mommy!"

She has a tender heart and sweet nature. She needs an immeasurable amount of hugs before she can fall asleep at night.

She is a free spirit. She loves to dance and when she does, she can really shake her little groove thang.

Every idea proposed by her big sister is solid gold.

She has enormous brown eyes that make it difficult for her mommy and daddy to be angry, even when she draws on the hardwood floor or removes all clothing from the waist down and pees in the backyard. In front of the neighbor mowing his yard. But I digress...

She will try just about anything at least once. Including broccoli.

She is a developing a little conscience. Three weeks after she promised me that she did not cut off a chunk of her hair (even though it looked that way), without prompting, she fessed up and in tears, admitted her guilt.

She prefaces almost every statement or question with, "Can I say one thing?"

When I give her kisses at bedtime, she holds my face in her little hands and looks straight into my eyes.

This girl...
has my whole heart.

Green Grass

I am adjusting to being a stay-at-home mom.

That said, my house between the hours of four and five 0'clock are the closest thing I have ever experienced to the utter pandemonium often associated with being a full-time mom to three young children. Especially lately with Sam's new found mobility and accompanying curiosity. It's pretty much unbridled chaos around here. All three kids are home. Dave is not. They are tired. They are hungry. I am ready to have a conversation with someone over the age of six. Try as I might to find my happy place sauteing vegetables, I am inevitably interrupted (as I was this evening) by a child in need of a timeout for sticking her finger down her brother's throat, or by having to run outside to stop my little entrepreneurs from trying to sell their toys to our next door neighbors, or by fishing a full size grape out of the mouth of my ten month old...and then comforting him after he slams his face down on the kitchen floor, bloodying his lip as a means of protest. At this hour, the witching hour, I must remind myself that I chose this life.

I chose this life because right now because I've been on the other side. I've had the chance to dress up and put on make-up and go to work and bring home a paycheck and have an identity outside of my home and come back to my kids at the end of the day. And the grass is not always greener, though some days it seems that way.

Even on the hardest days, the green grass of my stay-at-home motherhood experience has been the new bond I've formed with my children. I drop them off in the morning. I pick them up every afternoon. I know what shows they watch and what they eat for breakfast and who they played with on the playground. I know how to calm a tantrum and what sets them off. I know their favorite books at the library and what kind of slush they will order at Sonic for Happy Hour. I am there to enforce chores and I know which consequences carry the most weight when they start to whine. I knew most of these things when I worked, too. But now these are the most important details of my day. The only things I have to remember. They are my job. I will not say that this life is the kind of domestic heaven that I always dreamed of as a girl. I have WAY too much laundry for that to be true. But I know my kids. And I know them in a way I've never known them before. That is priceless.

Times three.

Lessons

Here a just a few things that I have learned over the course of the past year:
*Lessons that were re-learned this year and will be probably need to be re-learned in different ways every year for the rest of my life are delineated with an asterisk

-I am entitled to nothing*.
-Substance pretty much trumps aesthetics in every situation*
-One can buy electrocution-style mouse traps
-I can survive with only one bathroom
-I must never leave my wallet in the car. Ever.*
-Blood is not necessarily thicker than water
-Baby boys eat WAY more than baby girls
-Sixteen straight hours in a car with three kids is pretty much as bad as it sounds
-I am more than what I do (or don't do) for a living
-Nature should be both feared and respected...as should tornado warnings.
-One of the best things in life is to have a friend who can relate
-I love my creepy basement
-Ten successive snow days are only manageable with a case of diet coke in the fridge
-Chick-fil-A is the best fast food restaurant EVER.
-Grass is very seldom greener on the other side*
-My kids are awesome. All three of 'em
-The book is ALWAYS better than the movie*
-Excessive licorice consumption will give you cavities
-What doesn't kill you will sometimes make you stronger, and then sometimes it just really, really hurts*
-Avocados are freakin' expensive
-My husband is one of the biggest blessings I've ever received*
-God is good. All the time. Regardless of what is happening around me, God is always good.***

Who knew?

Back to School

In many ways, this summer has seemed interminable. As a parent, I am running out of creativity, grasping at straws for ways to entertain my kids. On Tuesday, in a hazy moment of desperation, I bought a package of Oreos and let them scoop the centers out to make a giant frosting ball. Not my finest parenting moment.

And summer began abruptly this year. It began without good-byes or end-of-the-year parties or any trace of sentimentality. The beginning of summer was, in fact, largely overlooked. Overshadowed. Overwhelmed.

Three weeks in, we began, almost reluctantly (and guiltily) to do some of the more normal summer things: trips to the pool, afternoon drives for ice cream, a vacation to Branson with friends. Even though life was anything but. Normal, that is.

Because there is nothing normal about your kids "playing" tornado. Or asking people wherever they go if they can see their basement. Or their crawl space. Just in case. And normal is not a field of FEMA trailers outside of town. Or little ole' Joplin, Missouri making headlines on CNN. Or letting your kids consume the frosting from an entire package of Oreo cookies.

But there is also nothing normal about weekly church dinners for the volunteers (over 400 at last count) who we have housed on our campus all summer. Or the way strangers help strangers without thinking twice. Or the way people in this city have learned to live with a sense of purpose for serving others. Because those in need live in their backyard. And there is nothing normal about free backpacks and school supplies for all 7,000 students. Or hundreds of people working around the clock to make sure our children, all of our children, have a place to go to school next Wednesday. Not normal can be a good thing. It can be a great thing.

On Wednesday, I will have a first grader. And a new start. A new routine. And a new normal. Back to school means more this year than a few new outfits and a new teacher. Back to school in Joplin will be a return to something that was lost on May 22nd. I am sure that I am not alone when I say that I crave the day-to-day normalcy of school drop-off and pick-up, the monotony of making lunches, of signing and returning paperwork, and of driving my kids to their dance lessons or soccer practice. Though life as it was ended on May 22nd, all of these "normal" things are really symbols that life, though changed forever, does goes on.

Debris

Last Friday, Dave and I spent the morning clearing rubble and sorting debris at an apartment complex destroyed by the storm. There is something incredibly intimate about sorting through the contents of someone's home. Or what is left of a home.

Raw. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Hidden among the debris- blocks of shattered concrete, shards of wood, bricks, and broken sheets of plywood, we found treasure: family photos, one dollar coins, a piece of a locker with a purple lock still attached from the high school a half mile down the road, a crock pot, a few pairs of panties, a bra, a set of greeting cards and an old second grade journal from a girl named Ashley. The first page was dated September 16, 1994. In a childlike hand, the entry read, Today we had a tornado drill.

Raw. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Their lives have been laid bare for the whole world to see. Or at least, our small group of volunteers. We separated the concrete and metal and larger pieces of wood. And we returned whatever personal items we came across to the site headquarters to be reclaimed by the former residents. And then we went home, humbled, shaken, changed.

Hampton House

My blog post lately have been a little on the heavy side. So I am going to lighten things up a little with the story of my house. It's probably not very interesting to anyone but those who know me (and love me), so feel free to navigate away from this page at any time.

Before moving to Joplin last summer, Dave and I looked at more houses and apartments than we had time for, even spending three exhausting and fruitless days during his parents' 50th wedding anniversary and family reunion. We found this house on the very last day of that search, with only a month to go until the big move. The pictures we had found online left a lot to be desired, but it was within our budget, it had four bedrooms, and we didn't have time to be picky. Walking in for the first time, Dave and I were instantly impressed. We were able to see past the old-chewed up Wrigley's gum colored walls and the teal and white striped wallpaper in the bathroom. It had beautiful hardwood floors, original fixtures in the bathroom, and crystal doorknobs throughout the house. There are so many things I would like to do to make it our own ; its imperfections are many, but I have found that the imperfections are what give a home its character.

The Exterior
The part of the house that I like the least. I would desperately like to lose the green all-weather carpet on the steps, but when I tried to remove it I realized there was a four inch gap between the house and the steps. That's an expensive fix so I've decided for now to embrace green all-weather carpet. We may temporarily compromise and switch to brown all-weather carpet down the line. Less conspicuous.

The sun porch was built as an exterior porch and we would someday like it to return to its original function. Because most of the time, this room looks something like this:

Dining Room


Kitchen- second least favorite thing about the house. Budget may never allow a total kitchen makeover, but I would like to paint the cabinets, lose the border, replace the couter tops, and change out the hardware someday. Needs more counter space. Right now, I use my old chest of drawers as an island. Besides that, it's a pretty functional, cozy little kitchen.The technology center in our kitchen. I use this Willow House fruit basket as an office caddy.

Sun porch off the kitchen. This is where we eat all of our meals, play, and do crafts. But only in warm weather. This room had snow drifts during last winter's blizzard. I love all the light from the windows on three sides of the room and how it's surrounded by trees. I wish we could use it year round.

Family room. Pretty standard. The bookcase is gift from Dave's parents. It has been ours since we've been married, but this is the first time we've lived close enough to bring it home. I love it!

Hallway. Note the small white door on the right. Nevermind, it's covered by the big, white door. Anyhow, it's the laundry chute. This is maybe one of my favorite things about this house. I love throwing laundry down the chute and pretending it has disappeared forever.

This is our only functional bathroom. And I really don't mind sharing. Talk to me again about this ten years from now when I have two teenage girls. The best thing about this bathroom is its original hexagon tile pattern and the cute built-in vanity.



Bath toy purgatory


Sadie's bedroom. We store most of the girls' toys in the armoire that we bought at a second hand store in Eufaula. There are lots of things I'd like to do with Sadie's room, but we're still on the fence about putting the girls in the same room.Amelia's room. I love the color of this room. And the window seat. And the built- in desk and glass front display cabinet. We let her choose which room she wanted because she's the oldest, and she got the best deal in the house. Don't tell Sadie.

Sam's room is the best color, though it's hard to tell from this picture. It's a very muted sage green. Very soothing. It's also the only bedroom currently with hardwood floors. If the girls ever share a room, we'd like to make this an office and put Sam in Sadie's room. Dreams...

We love our bedroom. It's the only upstairs room in the house (the stairway is behind a door in the dining room) and we have kind of liked having some distance from the kiddos. They have a little bit of a hike to try and get in bed with us at night. Also, because it's upstairs, once I go down for the day, I usually never make it back up so the bed very rarely gets made. I used to be a stickler for bed making. Oh well.


and....Hope you enjoyed the tour. The good, the bad, and everything in between.

Thirteen Hours and a Million Miles Away

This time last year, I was in a car somewhere between Memphis and Little Rock, a car packed full of moving van leftovers, two tired little girls, a long suffering husband, two Beta fish, and my six months pregnant self. This time last year, that car had Alabama plates and my girls still dropped the occasional "Yes, ma'am" or "No, sir." This time last year, I felt scared and alone, uncertain of the future and sad for what I was leaving behind.

In the past year, so much has changed: new house, new job, new church, new schools, new baby, new friends. These things are blessings.

In the past year, there has been loss. And lots of it. I don't have any theological perspective on that right now.

I have done a lot of looking back over the past 12 months. I will admit that I am glad to finally be in a place that when I play the "Where Was I a Year Ago" game, I will find myself here, in Joplin. When I wake up tomorrow, I will remember signing loan documents. And meeting Sallie at the house that she and a small task force lovingly cleaned and painted for us. I will remember buying Subway for the moving crew and how beautiful the paint colors (chosen in about five minutes at the Eufaula Wal-Mart) actually looked on the walls. I will remember the girls' excitement (short lived as it was) over the prospect of sharing a room for the first time. And I will remember the hot, musty smell that came with our sweet, old house. With the return of the summer heat, it smells like that again. I love it.

Looking back can be a great thing, but unchecked, it can and will drain today of its joy. I don't want to live in Alabama anymore. Not because it's not a great place to be, or because I don't like the people, or even because its average summer temperature is just slightly lower than the temperature of the sun (you get used to it). It's because it's time to stop living there when I no longer live there. And it's because I have a new home. A wonderful home. I have had it for a while now; it's time to lean in to it, as my friend would say. There is joy to be found here.

Stripped

The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me...
To comfort all who mourn, To console those who mourn in Zion,
To give them beauty for ashes, The oil of joy for mourning,
The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
That they may be called trees of righteousness,
The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified.
Isaiah 61:1-3

Driving through Joplin last week, I was startled by the way in which the landscape had significantly changed over the course of the past month. Mountains of rubble (in many places) are now clean concrete slabs. The trees, mangled with sheet metal and stripped bare, have been taken down. The abandoned carcasses of homes have disappeared one by one, devoured by monstrous machines and deposited in a landfill outside of town. Entire neighborhoods have simply ceased to exist. Wiped away. Wiped clean. Waiting.

For the families who have lost homes, I have heard that this part of the process has been both excruciating and cathartic. For the volunteers who have been helping to clear the rubble and take down trees, the work has been backbreaking and tedious in the ruthless summer heat. For those who were the first to clear their properties, the waiting game for building permits is agonizing and frustrating. Because before you rebuild, you have to tear down. And the tearing down is not yet finished. The work is slow. It hurts. It is hard to see beyond the emptiness. And for a season, we have to live there. In the emptiness, in the void, with the pain. For a season.

The conversation is beginning to turn towards restoration. At an open forum last week, residents were invited to share their vision of the new Joplin. In the paper, I read that one long-time Joplin resident wanted the city to be rebuilt exactly as it was before the storm. Good or bad, there is immense comfort in the familiar, the known, the way it was before. But it will never be the same. It can't be the same. Because in this season of emptiness, with its clean concrete slabs and treeless open fields, a vision will take shape. It will not be like it was before. It will be better. Because death is not the end. Destruction is not the end. The trees, stripped of their bark, stripped of their leaves, stripped of their beauty, will be replanted. The city will be rebuilt.

Confessions of an Inadequate Pastor's Wife

I have a confession to make. I do not relish the role of the pastor's wife. For some, that may be a shocking fact. For those who know me well, that information is about as earth-shattering as the concept that water is wet.

Here are a list of my vocational inadequacies: I am not demure. I don't always defer to my husband. I am, unfortunately, not pure of heart. I don't sew or play the piano or scrapbook. I don't listen to (and don't care for) much Christian music. I can't name all the books of the Bible in reverse order, and I don't understand Biblical Hebrew. I am sometimes outspoken. I have lots of opinions about lots of things, and I don't always keep those opinions to myself. I can be sarcastic. I very much appreciate off-color humor. I am sometimes a doubter, a pessimist, and a cynic. I am not closer to God than anyone else. Oh, and check all of the above for my children as well.

You see, if it were up to me, I would rather slip in the back of the church unnoticed on Sunday mornings -with my husband. And I could do without the hurt feelings and anger that go along with a job change. Ditto that for the very literal divorce, even in the best of circumstances, that must take place when one pastor leaves a church and another one takes over. It's painful. I very often feel like a spiritual vagabond, an employee of the church, but not a member, and without a true home.

But here's the thing. I immensely respect my husband's vocation and am honored to be a part of it. He is doing exactly what God wants him to do, and with God's help, he is really good at what he does. While internally I fight against the title of "pastor's wife" and all the connotations therein, I know that this is as much my calling as it is Dave's calling because we're in this together. It is not comfortable, but a true calling beckons us out of what is comfortable.

When God calls us, he changes us, whether that be in character or perspective. He is changing my perspective and is opening my eyes to the ways I can be used as I am. I'm not saying that some of my rough edges couldn't use a little polish. I'm open to a little refinishing. A lot of refinishing. But I am realizing that I don't have to be the pastor's wife. I just have to be Sarah, the lady in the third row whose slightly feral four year old occasionally flashes her undies to the congregation during the children's message. And who, incidentally, just happens to be married to a pastor.

Nine Years

Nine years ago today, I woke up with a smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach. I woke up thinking about the marathon first date I had been on that began at noon and lasted until almost midnight. He brought me a Ken Burns Jazz CD that I still haven't opened, and I greeted him with a hug which invaded his personal space. We walked together in a Relay for Life event, we attended a graduation party for a family friend (with my ENTIRE family), and we shared a long dinner over paella and tres leches cake at the Cuban restaurant down the street from my apartment. He held my hand on the way home, looked in my eyes, and said, "I'm not going to kiss you tonight, but I am going to kiss you." A week later he did kiss me. A month later he told me he loved me. Six months later we were engaged, and a year later we were married.

Nine years later, I woke up with a little girl putting stickers on my face and asking for breakfast. I kissed my exhausted husband before he left for a meeting, nursed a sick baby, put braids in Amelia's hair, made lunches and beds, and ran errands at Target. Yesterday, Dave brought flowers home and asked me if I remembered the significance. Then we laughed about what that night may have been like if we had known the path our lives would take. It might have made for an awkward first date, but I wouldn't have changed a thing.

Nine years from now, I know I'll have two teenagers, a few strands of gray hair, and some additional crow's feet. But aside from the inevitable, the future remains uncertain, as it should be. In the meantime, I love that nine years ago Dave Burgess became a part of my life. I love that he used cheesy lines to get me to like him and I love the path that we are on, mostly because we are on it together.

Sunday

It's almost impossible for me to remember what life was like before Sunday. There has been no way to mark the days since. No school, meetings cancelled, graduations on hold, playdates forgotten. Today was the first day since Sunday that there was something to plan for. It was a funeral.

It's also hard for me to remember right now that there are other things going on in the world. Reading updates from others about life as it was, life as it should be (whatever that means) causes irrational frustration. Anger, even. Maybe it's because right now, here in Joplin we are so removed from the trivial. Or maybe it's because I have removed myself from the trivial because of the overwhelming burden of guilt I feel ( I lost nothing when so many lost everything). Last week, I worried about getting my kids' teacher gifts ready in time, or the chipped paint in the hallway, or the way my upper arm flab seems lately to sway in the breeze. But that was before. There is only here and now, doing what we can, though it will never seem like enough because the well of need is so deep. There is a world outside of Joplin, Missouri, but right now it is hard for me to fathom.
This is an amazing community. A relative newcomer, I stand on the periphery in awe of all of the ways that people are working together because they love this town. Because they love their neighbor. Amelia's school sent people door to door to account for the whereabouts of every child who had not been heard from. Reconstruction has already begun on several of the school buildings to be ready in time for next year. Everywhere you turn restaurants offer free food. Free bottled water is stacked in parking lots for whoever may need it. After only five days, the major aid distribution centers stopped taking item donations because they were at capacity. There was standing room only to celebrate the loss of a beautiful and innocent life, ripped away by the tornado. There are tears of joy mixed with tears of grief.

I understand now why we are here in Joplin. I am bonded to this community, for better or for worse, and in a way I could never have imagined this time last week. Out of the chaos, there is hope in the new week that is to come. A new Sunday, a new week is on its way.

Moving On...

Home. It's a city named after a citrus in Southern California, comfortable and worn in, it feels like childhood. It's a town on the Hungarian plains, lovely and complicated, both in language and inhabitants, a place of independence and personal discovery. It's a suburb of San Diego, sanitized and homogenous, my first baby's first home. It's a small, charming Southern town, a kind of living museum, where neighbors quickly become family. These are the places I have lived, the places that have shaped me, the places that have become part of the very fiber of my being.

Our latest move, even ten months later, has left me stunned and saddened, longing for a place where I no longer belong. And it got me thinking about the definition of home, mostly because I have felt so homeless. Each move brings with it a little death, a falling away of a certain way of life. You can always return to a place you once called home, but those places are forever changed: stores close up or open for business, people move or remodel, relationships evolve to accommodate the distance, or sometimes fade away entirely. And there is inevitably a time of loss before the regeneration can begin in a new community. Some losses are deeper and more indelible than others. This one, for one reason or another, hit me hard. A long winter.

But there are buds on the trees. My winter is giving way to spring. Slowly. There are new friends at the park, and familiar, loving faces at church. There is a porch swing and long talks with my husband. There are daily walks to the neighborhood school, and a great park down the street. And there are swim lessons and soccer games, play dates, birthday parties, and school carnivals. There is a new routine, a new normal, and there is comfort in that.

With each move, I am reminded in a very clear and tangible way that ultimately, and no matter how badly we long for it, we do not have a permanent home here on earth. We are just passing through. And while we long for the eternal, we should not live for it, just as we should not live only for the past. Thus, home is now; home is the present.

Home is my little redhead with the missing bottom tooth who loves Little House on the Prairie and Strawberry Shortcake, whose little fingers are perpetually stained with marker. It is the little girl with the enormous brown eyes and runny nose, who has an insatiable need for scotch tape and bedtime renditions of "You're a Grand Old Flag." Home is my sweet, blue eyed boy who wants nothing more than to nurse, eat his prunes, and laugh at his sisters. And it is the man with the quirky sense of humor and cute dimples who promised to always love me and actually does, even though I'm covered in spit up ninety percent of the time and lacking regular access to a shower. They are my base, my comfy socks, my heart, my home.

Full Tank

My oldest daughter Amelia. Where do I begin? I love her so much that, at times, I could eat her up with a spoon. Other days? Well, today I had to take a "mommy time out" in the bathroom of "Los Portales" because I was just about ready to overturn my table of chips and guac. You see, she began the day by exclaiming that she liked her preschool teacher better than me. Then, at church, in front of God and everyone, she put her sister in a choke hold over an inflatable ball. At lunch, she refused to sit by me. But it was that snotty, sing-songy tattle-tale voice, the one that can only be learned on kindergarten playgrounds, that sent me over the edge. I went to the bathroom and cried.

I know how to handle Amelia. In fact, I have it down to a science, and usually, I'm pretty good at staying in control of my emotions in the midst of her "spirit." It's just that my sweet girl requires me to be on my "A" game. All the time. And it's been a hard month. With Dave's mission trip, company in town, Halloween, seasonal allergies and Dave's recent pneumonia diagnosis, I feel like I've barely been able to keep my head above water. I fell out of sync with myself and my kids. I am tired, I am edgy about laundry and schoolwork and upcoming trips, I am annoyed by all the little piles all over my house, and my priorities are out of balance. When this happens, I fall in to maintenance mode with everything, including my kids. Maintenance mode doesn't phase Sadie, but Amelia just doesn't roll with maintenance mode. And really, she shouldn't have to.

So, after a nice little cry in arguably the most disgusting public restroom in Eufaula (but that's another post), I went back to the table and decided that we were in need of a date. Just the two of us. She was mad at me so it took some convincing, and actually, a little bribery, but I knew we needed the time together. We spent the afternoon in Columbus. I let her spend a leftover birthday gift card at Target. She bought a pretend bathtub for her dolls and a 100 piece rabbit puzzle, just in case you were wondering. I let her have a (very small) diet coke for the first time. We walked the aisles of Pet Smart and I named all the different kinds of fish for her. Then it was off to Micheal's where she helped me choose some craft paper for a project I'm working on. On the way home, we called Aunt Abby to thank her for the gift card that bought her new toys, we sang "Wheels on the Bus" and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," we talked about school and her friends and the girls on the playground who are sometimes not so nice. And she told me that she didn't mean it when she said she liked her teacher more than me. By the time we reached Eufaula, she was a different girl than the one who made me want to overturn tables in public places. Her tank was full and so was mine.

Happiness or Blessing?

Lately I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be blessed. It seems like the word "blessing" is everywhere I turn: a chapter in Amelia's children's Bible is called "God's Blessings Grow"; an earlier CNN headline reads, "Flood Survivors Count Their Blessings"; a friend of a friend's blog post today is entitled "Deliriously Blessed." I ask God to bless my home, my family, and my loved ones, but do I really understand what I am asking for?

What I think I am asking for is for a happy home, for a healthy family, for safety and peace for my loved ones. However, I wonder often about how my definition of blessing might be applied to the faith of those who live in a constant state of violence, misery and poverty. Are they not blessed? Do they live outside of God's favor? If I adhere to my definition, the answer is yes. If I adhere to my definition, blessing is equated to my own personal and selfish happiness. If I adhere to my definition, then I also must believe that I am more deserving of God's favor. I do believe that my God is just; therefore, my definition of blessing must change.

Thoughts?

But I get turned around
I mistake some happiness for blessing
But I`m blessed as the poor
Still I judge success by how I`m dressing
-Caedmon's Call

Redemption in the Deep South

Today as I was driving to the grocery store, alone with my thoughts for the first time in about a week, I had an epiphany about happiness. I realized that I was, that I AM happy. This happiness of which I speak is not a giddy euphoria, but more of a steady, deep current of contentedness. I think I have felt this way for a while, but on this solo trip to the store, I realized that I am no longer waiting for that other shoe to drop. I trust this happiness. I know it won't go away.

Moving from California has been cathartic for me. I needed a new canvas. Growing up, and well into my twenties, I became accustomed to what I now call "crisis living," going from one personal or family crisis to another. I couldn't slow down and enjoy life; I was constantly anxious about turning a corner and running headlong, unprepared, in to my next tragedy. So I stayed on my guard, rejecting before I could be rejected, struggling to keep my head above the tide of anger and bitterness. This way of life was so ingrained in my mental topography, I honestly didn't know, until recently, that there was another way to live.

Early in our marriage, my husband helped me to recognize that the unhealthy consequences of living with this constant fear, but I had no idea how to change. Physical distance has been the only way for me to repair my faulty wiring; Alabama has been my soul's rehabilitation. We did not move here as a means of escape, and I did not foresee that this new found peace would be the result. But it was, and it has been, and I am thankful.

I am thankful because, though redemption has always been a part of the story, it is now a part of my story. I understand what it means now, and because I understand it, I can pass it on. I am no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop, or waiting in fear for the next crisis to arise; but when it does, I have a deep well from which to draw.

A Short Story by Amelia Burgess

When Ajee (Dave's mom) came to visit last April, she began an album of short stories dictated by Amelia. Remember, I record it as I hear it. No editing is involved. Here is her latest work:

Jack Anderson's Best Cousin's House
by Amelia Burgess

Once upon a time there was a baby butterfly. She was going over to her friend Jack Anderson's cousin's house. She saw her friend's house was on fire, so she jumped on top of the roof and she got some water from the water fountain and she got where the fire was and there was a hole. Then she didn't know what to do, so lots of friends came over and they had a birthday party.

The End.

We must work on denoument and resolution...

The Summer of Brokenness

Here's my list:

• Our lawnmower is broken and the grass is a foot high
• The top oven no longer heats, while the bottom oven runs about 200 degrees too hot
  
• We discovered wood rot and pulled a handful off of an outdoor window casing the other day
• There is a leak in our roof that has already been fixed twice...and is still leaking
• The face of our dishwasher fell off; it gives my kitchen an unintentional, industrial look
• The toilet in the girls' bathroom in unusable; Dave tried to fix it a few weeks ago, but now it sprays water from the top of the toilet instead of the bottom when you flush
• Via CT scan yesterday, I learned that I have sinus polyps (the cause of my chronic sinus infections this spring), which will have to be surgically removed a week before school starts; recovery time is a week...

But here's the other list:

• A fellow congregant offered us a free riding lawn mower that he no longer uses
• We have a microwave...and now, an oven thermometer
• The wood rot is localized to a very small area
• The big leaks are taken care of; at least it's not running down the wall anymore
• Our urban chic dishwasher is a great ice breaker when we have people over for dinner
• The toilet is most likely an easy fix, just not by my husband
• My silly little polyps are not life threatening, just a bit uncomfortable
  

Enjoy the View

Today, while Amelia was playing some computer games and Sadie was napping, I went to the bookshelf where we keep old journals and selected one at random. Dave and I used to be avid journal writers, but life creeps in and slowly, and inevitably, the busy-ness of everyday chips away at time for solitude and self-reflection.

The journal I grabbed off the shelf today belonged to Dave. I felt at liberty to read it because he had read it to me before, when we were first dating. Page after page of this journal was filled with poetry, beautiful poetry, and before I knew it, an hour had passed; Amelia was still playing computer games and Sadie was up from her nap. Life crept back in and snapped me out of my reverie.

Dave reminds me every day why I married him. He makes me laugh out loud on a regular basis; he loves our girls in a way that I didn't know fathers could love their daughters; he takes care of our family in little ways that I don't always immediately recognize. But life creeps in. After six years of marriage, two kids, two full-time jobs and more laundry and yard work than we could have ever hoped for, we have both lost some of the serendipity of our youth. It did my heart well to revisit the passion, idealism and sensitivity of the man I fell in love with. It reminded me that he is still that man and I'm still that woman. We just have to work a little harder to find that part of ourselves these days.

Contrast

Here are my girls' legs, side by side, after the same amount of sun exposure. I swear they have the same father...

Leaps and Bounds

With her favorite book, Dora Loves Boots

Amelia, lending moral support

Little girl, big room

Sweet dreams...

Between my girls, Sadie is without question the more easy going of the two; however, when she sets her mind to something, it is nearly impossible to dissuade her from that path. When she was two weeks old, Sadie decided that she would never take a feeding from anything but her mother's breast. And she never did. Not once. I tried every bottle on the market, even the kind that are made to resemble a real breast that you find advertised in the back of parenting magazines. When I went back to work, her babysitters had to feed her with a little medicine dropper because she refused everything else. At two weeks old, she made a decision about the way she wanted to be fed...and there was no going back.

So it was with sleeping in a crib. Saturday night, I put her to bed and within ten minutes heard sobbing in her room: deep, racking sobs as if she were scared. She never does this, so I went to check on her and as I walked in, she screamed between sobs, "I want sleep Pooh bed. I want to sleep Pooh bed!" It took several more minutes before it became clear what she was trying to communicate in her broken toddler English. "Pooh bed" is the toddler bed with Winnie-the-Pooh sheets we still had set up from our friends' visit back in April. Fine, I thought. I'll just put the sheets on her crib mattress. As I changed her sheets and began to put the mattress back in the crib, Sadie began waving her hands wildly and sobbing again, "I want sleep Pooh bed! I want to sleep Pooh bed!" So once more, I took the mattress out of the crib and this time put it on the floor. As soon as it touched the carpet, Sadie dove for the mattress and requested her favorite doll and blanket to snuggle with. I stayed with her for a minute, kissed her and closed the door. We heard not a sound from her room for the rest of the night. That's all it took for her to make that leap from a baby to a toddler.

Last night, we set up the toddler bed and removed her crib for good. Here are the obligatory "first night in a big girl bed" pictures. Sweet dreams, little gir! You are growing up too fast...