The Haunting Spirit

There once was a dog who was a bit weird. He would sit in corners and shake for no apparent reason. He refused to go outside to pee, spreading his legs as wide as he could muster in an attempt to not fit through the back door when being thrown out, and he would jump at said door until the pads of his feet bled. However, despite his apparent disdain for the outside world, if the front door were opened, he would make a mad-dash to escape.

His frustrated owner would often tell him If you hate it here so much, why don’t you keep running?

But, alas, the dog would always return, or, at least, he was always returned.

A certain husband was in love with this dog. In fact, he was so in love with this dog that he would never feed the dog in the morning or put this dog on a leash to take him outside to do his business (since the leash was the only way to drag him out the door and keep him out).

This certain husband would not entertain the thought of giving this crazy dog away.

And a certain wife loved this dog because he was hers, but she didn’t like this dog. However, her love for this dog compelled her to take him to obedience training while she was nine months pregnant.

The training didn’t stick, and after the baby was born, the dog still refused to go out when the door was opened for him; however, he made his case known that he was not happy with his life-situation by peeing on the carpet every time a certain wife with a 17-month-old and a new baby nursed her new baby upstairs. Every time.

As a last-ditch effort, this wife called a very expensive dog-whisperer, even though she really couldn’t part with that kind of money. It didn’t matter–the dog-whisperer never called her back.

Finally this wife had had enough. Despite her husband’s love for the dog for whom he did not feed or walk, this wife called a rescue agency. After all, she was in desperate need of being rescued. After crying and having her therapy session on the phone with a woman from this agency, the arrangements were made, and this dog is now in a good home.

But his spirit lives on.

Someone else has taken his place. Yes, the child who was in the womb of a certain wife during the obedience training felt the spirit of this dog and has decided that she must vindicate him.

This child was trained in the way of the potty at 21 months old. Nevertheless, the child with the spirit of the crazy dog has taken on his ways.

Every time a certain mother mops the floor, this child with the dog spirit pees on it. Every time. Sometimes twice.

And a certain mother has a certain warning for this certain child:

You don’t remember Baxter, but I do. I gave him away, and I will give you away, too. Your grandmother’s house is waiting….

The Bride

I woke up that morning and couldn’t really eat, my body full of excitement rather than food, and I carried that emotion with me the whole day through–as the last pin was placed in my hair and veil secured to the top of my head, as I completed my make-up with the shiny lipstick and a smile, and as I stepped into the full, white dress that transformed me from an ordinary young woman to a glowing princess.

I wasn’t nervous, but I was eager. The day was full of newness. We would see each other for the first time that day as I walked down the aisle, and we would leave together for the first time that night as we drove away, never again to return to separate homes.

The waiting was beautiful and fun and, parts, reminiscent of elementary school as we passed notes and messages through the hands of our best friends. The waiting, which started months before and, at times, seemed to pass too slowly, was now at its end, as I stood alone with my father outside the doors to the sanctuary.

What would he think as I walked down the aisle? Would I take his breath away?

And then the moment came as the piano played, and the crowd rose, and we walked through the open doors.

And the day was beautiful, the one day in my life that was truly full of joy and nothing else, not tainted by the pain brought into a fallen world, a day when my smile stretched from ear to ear as I took the hand of the man I would love forever.

Almost nine years later, that day can seem so far away sometimes.

But I remembered as I sang the lyrics that flashed across the screen, and, for a moment, my body tingled with joyous expectation. I remembered feeling beautiful in white; I remembered longing to meet my groom. And for the first time in my entire journey of faith, I understood for a moment what it means to be the bride of Christ:

When we arrive at eternity’s shore
Where death is just a memory and tears are no more
We’ll enter in as the wedding bells ring
Your bride will come together and we’ll sing… You’re Beautiful*

The excitement, the twinge of nerves. Facing the one who knows my past yet sees me radiant, clothed in white. And finally taking His hand as we begin our new life together, no longer going home to separate places but instead stepping into eternity together, an eternity with joy, an eternity with the absence of pain or tears from a fallen world, an eternity begun with redemption.

It’s beautiful.

* “You’re Beautiful” Music and lyrics by Phil Wickham

What emotions did you feel as you waited for your wedding to begin? Has a song ever brought to a life for you a truth found in Scripture? Linking up with Michelle and Jen this week.

Why I Celebrate: Chloe’s Second Birthday

As a child, I never understood birthdays. Sure, I loved getting presents and a chance to choose my favorite meal for dinner, so I didn’t question the tradition too much–but why a day to celebrate that I was born? I didn’t do anything to make the day happen, so why a day for me?

But after having children, I understood the answer.

Chloe, I look at you, and I realize that birthdays are just as much for those throwing the party as the one throwing the wrapping paper.

They are a chance to thank God for the precious gift of you while you enjoy all of yours.

They give a reason to spend one more day together as a family, laughing and loving; one more day to remember how the family changed for the better two years before.

And they are a day to remember the beautiful colors this life contains and how you made each of them a little brighter.

Happy Birthday, sweet Chloe. You truly are God’s gift.

How does your family celebrate birthdays? What do birthdays mean to you?

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My Ice Cream-Cold Heart

I’ve heard this story so many times that I’m not sure if the storage rooms in my weak memory are holding the details of the actual event or my father’s retelling. Nevertheless, I can picture myself perfectly in that bubblegum-pink shirt behind the Baskin Robbins counter as my parents walked through the door.

My dad walked up with a smile for his daughter working her first job, but before he had a chance to say anything, I laid out the rules for this lover of vanilla ice cream:

“I can’t give you any breaks, Dad.”

He hadn’t asked for a break, nor would he, yet I felt the need to make the policy of the owners of that little Baskin Robbins in Georgia known from the get-go.

But what kind of daughter doesn’t give her father a break, rounding out that ice cream cone with an extra-large scoop of vanilla?

Perhaps it was the influence of the ice cream-drill sergeant-owners. After all, they did have a scale on the counter so that we could measure our scoops. They did have a separate rate for their employees for that first week of training that was below minimum wage (although, in fairness, I got minimum wage for catching on so quickly). They did give me a surprise written test after I had been an employee for at least a month to ensure I knew the difference between a ‘float’ and a ‘soda’ and could list the ingredients in a ‘freeze,’ even though, had I forgotten, there were ingredient cards on the back counter.

And they did discourage us from taking our two free scoops each shift with their measuring stick and pay incentive. Yes, they actually measured the amount of ice cream left in the buckets versus the number of sales. If our profit margin lay within a certain amount, we would get an extra nickel per hour added to our hourly pay. If it were within the next level, a dime, and the next level a whole quarter! Obviously this kind of money really adds up when one works, at most, a four-hour shift, two to three days a week.

I was obviously thinking of my co-workers. I didn’t want to be the one to ruin the pay incentive by taking my free scoops. I didn’t want to deprive them of extra money for college by rounding out my dad’s ice cream cone. Think–they could buy an extra pillow for their futon by the end of the summer!

So before my dad even ordered, I told him ‘no.’ No, there would be no extra ice cream for him.

What kind of daughter does that to her own father? A daughter with a heart as cold as the Rocky Road she scoops.

And, yet, I went home every night with my chocolate-stained, bubblegum-pink shirt, proud that I rarely took my free scoops, and when I put in my two week’s notice, my boss’s voice cracked as he begged me to stay. Sure he wanted me to stay–think of all the nickels I saved him!

Now, as I relive that moment in my mind, I have to shake my head. What was wrong with me? Why didn’t I bring home a scoop of ice cream for my dad every shift I worked? Why didn’t I sit around the table with my mom while I told her about my day over a cup of ‘Quarterback Crunch’?

Because I was a rule-follower, an over-achiever, a goody-goody. Yet, I realize now that sometimes following the rules too closely is anything but good. When I look back over my life thus far, it’s not the rules that I broke that I regret the most.

It’s the ones that I didn’t.

Dad, you will get the biggest scoop of vanilla ice cream I can muster at Chloe’s birthday party this weekend.

What is a memory from your first job? Have you ever followed a rule that you wish you would have broken? Linking up with Mama Kat today. Come back with your own post for ‘Journeys’ tomorrow!

Ambivalence

I awoke a little after midnight on the couch where I had fallen asleep to sounds of cheering in Times Square, and the scene was eerily reminiscent of many of my New Year’s. I watched on the T.V. as Americans rejoiced in our capital and in the city which housed such tragedy near ten years ago, and I felt nothing. Or maybe I felt everything. I went to bed that night not knowing how to feel after learning that we killed Osama Bin Laden, and I spent most of the day yesterday trying to process my thoughts.

I read my share of Facebook status updates rejoicing in the death of one of the most miserable human beings my generation has known and those quoting Martin Luther King, Jr. reminding us to turn from hatred. I read blogs reminding me that this man got what he deserved, and I read articles from pastors urging Christians to respond with love. And I didn’t know what to feel.

Two nights ago, I was proud of our military. What an elite group of men who entered an extremely dangerous situation, lost a helicopter, but didn’t lose one American life! What a group of men who took out the target and then got out–I have such respect for all our military and their bravery.

I was proud of our Commander-In-Chief for allowing the military to do its job, for giving the order to finally get this man who brought such tragedy to our country, who destroyed thousands of lives and disrupted our way of life forever.

But I found myself not able to cheer.

I’d like to say that I felt sadness for a soul who, based on my beliefs, is spending an eternity burning in hell for his deeds. But I don’t. Bin Laden got what he deserved. I can honestly say that while he was alive, I did pray for him–I’m not sure I even believed my own prayers–but I did pray that the miraculous would occur, that he would repent and turn to the God who has grace and love for anyone who would accept it. But now that he has died, this coward who recruited others to kill themselves in order to advance his mission of hate, this man who grabbed and used one of his own wives as a shield in a desperate attempt to save himself; I feel disgust for him. And I feel nothing.

Yet, I am very sad. I know this man mattered to God and was created in His image. What a tragedy of a life wasted, a life that refused to see the value in others, a life who allowed his soul to turn as black as the hell in which he is now residing.

My mind waffles back and forth as I wrestle with my own political beliefs and spiritual instructions. I don’t believe a nation can turn the other cheek when attacked, yet I know a Christian can’t embrace the love of Jesus and rejoice over the death of anyone who lived a life apart from God.

I want to celebrate that the good guys won, but I think of the thousands of lives lost on September 11th and the thousands more in pursuit of justice. I think of the military families who have endured years of separation and those who broke apart under the weight of the burden. I think of a nation divided over Guantanamo Bay and whether or not we should be involved in a War on Terror. And I think of the time I placed my shoes in a bin at airport security and had to check if bottled breast milk could come on board.

I want to cheer for the good guys. I want to celebrate a victory.

But I fear there are no winners–

only a soul who was lost and a way of life that we will never get back.

What I Don’t Deserve

A whisper broke the momentary silence, filling the black room.

“Did you have fun at Easter?”

“Yes!”

I reached over across the bed and grabbed my husband’s arm. After enduring a bedtime routine that started at 7, we thought we would finally get to go bed at 11 after bringing the two trouble-makers in our room, making little pads on the floor with the new blankets their Grammy made. But our three-year-old couldn’t resist the temptation to talk to her brother one more time before finally drifting off to sleep.

Randomly throughout the day Hannah Grace would order me, “Ask me what I did today in church,” and when I would comply, she’d scream, “Jesus is Alive!!!!”

I guess a day with that much excitement, that much candy doesn’t turn off quite so easily. And I have to admit, the frustration I would normally feel if my children were up for four hours after we began bedtime gave way to the warm sensation that filled my heart. The day spent celebrating did me good.

Many days I focus on what I don’t deserve–disobedience, totaled cars, fatigue–and those thoughts are never productive. But this day was different. I was consumed with my unworthiness.

I looked around and saw my parents and siblings, laughing and playing with five young children running around the yard. My heart ached for my sick nephew and my sister and brother-in-law at home with him, missing our celebration. I remembered the image of my husband, vacuuming and setting out chairs as we prepared for the day. And I smiled at the beauty of my two daughters dressed in purple flowing dresses, my son growing tall, but still my little boy in blue.

I don’t deserve this.

And I thought about my deeds that should leave a dark stain on my soul. And, yet, I am marked white as snow, pure in His sight because of this day, Easter. Of all the blessings I don’t deserve, His gift is the greatest.

Today was different. As I thought about all I don’t deserve, the greatest gift that I don’t deserve, everything was put in perspective. I realized the magnitude of my unworthiness, and my heart was glad.

Linking up with Michelle at Graceful and Jen at Finding Heaven. How did you celebrate Easter? What does Easter mean to you?

In the Garden

As we poked seeds into the little holes we dug with our fingers, an excitement filled my body. Our second garden was taking shape, herbs next to their compatible vegetables instead of separate like the year before, a new bed dedicated to wildflowers by the lone Dogwood tree.

Last year was our first attempt at a garden, and I found fulfillment in the experience. When I’d walk out in the mornings to water the plants already thirsty from the Georgia heat, my mind would dwell on the spiritual. I’d think of the Master Gardener and His precision pruning. I’d think of the circumstances of life beyond my control, the seasons of drought or the times of refreshing rain.

But as I was sitting with dirt creeping in my socks and filling the small spaces between my fingernails and skin, my thoughts weren’t nearly so deep. Nor are they this morning.

Instead, I am an anxious little girl waiting for Christmas to come, wondering what presents I will unwrap in the morning,

wondering if our stockings will be filled to the brim with peppers this year unlike the year before,

wondering if the kids will sneak their gifts before Christmas day arrives.

Do you have a garden? What is the most fulfilling part of the experience for you?

Warm, Sunny Days

Matt took the week off from work to coincide with the kids’ Spring Break from preschool. He never said so, but I think he took the time off for me as much as for him. And it’s been wonderful.

Watching the kids look in pure wonder at a part of God’s creation that they never see, and seeing the whole family smiling together–I couldn’t ask for anything more.

And, yet, I want to ask for a little more; I want to know how to keep this joy even when Matt goes back to work.

I know part of the answer. When we work together and play together and choose to experience our days together, even if we’re not doing the same thing…

…life runs a little smoother, time-outs and the need for discipline a little more rare.

And so we spent our day outside, each engaged in a different task beneath the warm sunshine, amidst a butterfly or two who would dance its way across our backyard proclaiming to us that spring is here. Picking the black soil out of our fingernails or green Play-doh out of its little cylinder–we were free to make messes and revel in their goodness.

And as I walk this journey in a quest for joy, a peace and contentment with my children every day, I can’t help but ask God one more question:

Is there any way you could make it warm and sunny every day?

What journey are you taking? Leave a comment below, or link up with your own post!
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If You Really Knew Me

Box of Chocolates Cake — photo via photobucket

I was scurrying about the kitchen, straightening up the mounds of paper that never seemed to leave, displaying the orange card that they had made for him. Red and purple paper hearts adorned the front, preschool-writing of big letters forming names across the inside. And I grabbed children one by one brushing hair and checking faces for Daddy’s arrival.

It was Valentine’s Day, and he would take our daughters for a special date, I, our son. We had decided long ago that Valentine’s Day was not a holiday worthy of our money, yet it served as the perfect excuse for some special one-on-one time with our children. Even still, I held my breath every year, wondering if he had thought of me, too.

I really didn’t want him to spend his money–Valentine’s Day was too commercial and silly–but since the days of flowers for no reason and little notes left on my windshield in the morning were long gone, I secretly hoped for a handmade card describing all the reasons he loved me. Maybe even a single flower to place in a vase atop our kitchen table.

But definitely NOT what he showed up with the year before.

We had been married almost eight years at the time–how long did he need before he truly knew me?

The kids responded like Pavlov’s dogs to the familiar sound of the garage door creaking to open and waited for their Daddy to come through the kitchen door. And as he came through the door, we all immediately noticed the red carnations he had for each of us. Within 15 seconds, each child had broken his or her own stem, and Matt quickly got to work trying to tape back together the broken flowers.

But my eyes didn’t leave the small package he had set on the counter.

Once flowers were mended and pictures were taken, I moved my way to read the package on the counter. My eyes immediately caught the word ‘Chocolate.’

To most, that one word would cause happy endorphins to spread throughout the body. But I’m not most.

There are many weird things about me, and I will accept that not liking chocolate is one of them. I cannot ever remember ordering a piece of chocolate cake nor a time when I didn’t choose the vanilla ice cream. The thought of eating a whole Hershey’s bar makes me feel sick, and if I wanted to find solace in food, I’d choose pizza.

There are a few notable exceptions, and if one really knew me, one might know them. I do like brownies; however, if you slap some fudge on top of them, they are now worthless to me. I like peanut M&Ms, but that’s because the peanut is the focus. I like chocolate syrup atop an ice cream sundae, and I don’t mind the chocolate ice cream, as long as vanilla is the predominant flavor.

I really don’t expect anyone to know those specific details…

…but I did expect that my husband of almost eight years would have enough sense to not show up with a box of chocolates. Even if it is Valentine’s Day. Even if every other woman in America would eat them.

As I looked at the box on the counter, I wondered if one year later my husband still didn’t know me. My eyes continued to scan the whole title, reading the words ‘Chocolate Covered Pretzels.’ While they were an improvement from the box of chocolates from last year, I still didn’t get it.

“I thought you’d like the sweet with the salty.”

I just stared at him for a minute.

“You know, it’s not a prerequisite for the holiday that a person has to eat chocolate,” I said shaking my head at him.

He laughed as we began to put coats on little kids excited for date night. And as we moved to our separate cars, I picked out the perfect gift for Matt next year–a big bowl of eggplant with some french fries stuck in the middle.

Writing in response to the prompt, “If you really knew me, you’d know that…” for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. What is something that we’d know about you if we really knew you?

And I’d love for you to come back tomorrow and link up your own post for ‘Journeys.” You can use any topic, as long as it pertains to a spiritual journey that you are currently taking.

Ten Things I Won’t/Will Miss About Having Little Children

Some Things I Won’t Miss About Having Little Children:

10. Waking up with a sore back because one or more little children snuck in our bed, sleeping horizontally with their little toes pushing into my spine.

9. The anxiety I feel if I go to the bathroom alone for a minute, not knowing what will await me when I come out.

8. Having to participate in every. single. game. outside, never getting the chance to sit on the porch glider and just relax.

7. The limited freedom to have a spontaneous Friday night date-night or attend a late-night outing, the availability of a babysitter or getting the kids in bed by a reasonable time always a prerequisite.

6. Temper-tantrums.

But I Will Miss:

5. Waking up with a sore back because one or more little children snuck in our bed, wanting the security of Daddy and Mommy and another chance to snuggle.

4. The opportunity to guide my children’s impulses, teaching them right from wrong, while the consequences are small. One day they will be grown-up, no longer needing input from Mommy and Daddy, in a world where they won’t always get a second chance.

3. Being asked to participate in my children’s games outside, having been replaced by the neighborhood kids, or one day by boyfriends and girlfriends.

2. The security of having little kids tucked away in bed, replaced, instead, with Friday nights full of worry waiting up for teenagers to make curfew.

1. Hmm…I can’t do it…I won’t miss temper-tantrums.

Linking up with Amanda today for her Top Ten Tuesday at ohamada.com. What would you add to the list?