tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22304695102790757832024-03-14T05:56:02.726-08:00Copperlight Woodsacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.comBlogger188125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-88088899161421594932013-08-12T19:53:00.000-08:002013-08-18T01:19:53.018-08:00always with me, everywhere<div class="MsoBodyText">
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Next week marks a significant 12-month victory in our family. A year ago, we risked the ocean and stormed two castles and brought two children out of captivity and into a family. <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/08/a-long-drive-to-forever.html" target="_blank">For good, forever</a>. </div>
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<span lang="EN">It sounds nice. Victorious, glorious.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">But it has been hard, and we’ve been learning to abide in ways we never thought to before. In the midst of other life happenings (because drama never has the courtesy to make an appointment), we have walked many places this year that we honestly did not want to go. We still walk to some of those places every week. Usually, every day...often, more than once.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">It’s a grisly battle and there’s nothing romantic or pretty about it.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">There have been mornings that I don’t want to leave the bedroom. There are chaotic afternoons that taunt and harass with the voice of the enemy saying, “I told you so.” There are middle-of-the-nights that I fight bloody hell for joy and peace.</span> </div>
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<span lang="EN">It is hardest when I forget that He’s right there in those hard places with us. Sometimes I forget <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/06/something-beautiful.html">to see the beautiful</a>, I forget that He makes <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/07/quiet-resting-places.html">quiet resting places</a> in the chaos</span><span lang="EN" style="color: windowtext;">, and I forget that <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/07/anxious-for-nothing.html">He’s holding the needle</a>.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN">But He reminds me over and over and over. He's always with me. This verse has been taped to our shower wall in a plastic sheet protector for the past several months:</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Courier New';">You keep him in perfect peace </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Courier New';">whose mind is stayed on You, </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Courier New';">because he trusts in You.</span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New";">- Isaiah 26:3</span></blockquote>
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In the wee hours one morning recently, I gave up trying to get back to sleep. I was tired, but tired of trying, too.</div>
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We’d been fighting illness and there were eight loads of laundry in queue. I thought I’d get some of it done in a quiet house, drink a glass of water, and go back to bed in an hour or so once I was tired enough to fall back asleep. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tiptoed downstairs. Two cats, one striped and one solid, came padding behind me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span lang="EN">One of them in particular follows me everywhere, every day. White as a cue ball, she’s everywhere I go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN">Where can I go from my Sophie? Or where can I flee from her presence? If ascend up the stairs, she is there. If I make my bed in the morning, she is climbing all over the pillows. If I take the wash out of the dryer, behold, she is there. If I hide in the remotest part of the house, even there she will follow me, her right paw will lay hold of the sandwich I am trying to eat for lunch. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN">- <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+139&version=NIV">Psalm 139:7-10</a>, modified considerably<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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The girl knows what it is to abide, to pursue the presence of the one she loves. To follow the person who loves her best. She loves to be with me, and I love that, too – though sometimes I’d like to keep my bowl of ice cream to myself.</div>
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Despite my grand intentions, the laundry in the dryer was still damp. I set it to running again, wondering what to do. Fold a few blankets. Wipe the counter. Tell the cats to be quiet because it’s not breakfast time yet…in this house, at least.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p>I looked for my Bible but couldn’t find it. I remembered that it was by the bed, but didn’t want to risk waking up small humans by going back upstairs to get it.</div>
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I grab another book instead, and read this:</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The Spirit must break our practice of the presence of self, and He does this by forging Himself into our inner being. How often these last years have I been filled with that burning? There were times when I literally felt as though He grabbed my soul with His holy fist and lifted me up before His face with my feet dangling in midair and my tongue protesting, “No, Lord, I can’t take anymore. No more, Lord. I’m weary of the painful growth.”</span></blockquote>
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And I realize that the laundry was just a ruse to get me down here to read this, today, this morning, right now. Because I need more of Him urgently.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I am learning about those flames which burn but do not consume. I am learning about that fire which releases the odor and fragrance of roses and about that Guest who inhabits the parlor of our souls, who banks the fireplace with ashes to keep the burning low or who uses the billows when the room has grown cold.</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">- Karen Burton Mains, <i>Open Heart, Open Home</i></span></blockquote>
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I check the laundry. Pull out dry things that are wadded around damp towels and reset the dryer. Fold a pillowcase and some underwear, a set of sheets. It is the Sabbath without rest right now – Jesus healed on the Sabbath, and we need healing. But it is quiet and the spirit is resting even when the body isn’t.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sophie is here, quietly accepting the wait for breakfast, though Gus still loiters in the kitchen. It is just me and them and Him and the laundry, breathing in peace and fellowship. It is the day of Communion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The towels are dry and another load goes in. I finish folding warm clothes in a cold room, in bare feet on a hard floor. Put away my empty glass. Stack sheets and towels and underwear, triumphant over another load of laundry, and head upstairs, two little cats following me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He has used His billows to relight the fire, and He banks me in with a down comforter. Victorious, glorious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Contentedly exhausted, I go back to sleep…and He is right there in that place, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-55390417134359818622013-07-27T18:09:00.002-08:002013-07-29T16:53:14.376-08:00anxious for nothing<div class="MsoBodyText">
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<span lang="EN"><br /></span>
I love bread dough. There is something instinctively comforting
about warm, rising dough that is as fluffy as toddler cheeks. I love the <i>ppfffffff</i><span style="font-size: small;"> sound of punching the dough down
after the first rise and then dividing it into little loaf portions and tucking them into their pans. I love folding in
mozzarella and sauteed onions and so many herbs that they fall out when you lift
the dough into the big loaf pan. </span><br />
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-size: small;">I love watching it rise.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">And…I really love eating it. Hello, my name is Shannon, and I love, I adore, I highly esteem, I less-than-three carbs and gluten. Don’t tell our naturopath.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Baking bread used to be so intimidating to me. Silly, hmm? It was unfamiliar territory and seemed like a big process. I wasn’t sure if I really wanted
to tackle it. </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: #fffefd; color: #001320; line-height: 21px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.</span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: #fffefd; color: #001320; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 21px; text-align: justify;">- Philippians 4:6</span></blockquote>
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So tackle it I did, and then got a little braver. I learned to play.<br />
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I learned to make new things, and discovered the love of stretching strips
of pizza dough over <a href="http://www.squidoo.com/homemade-calzone" target="_blank">calzone</a> filling, rolling long thin triangles into crescent rolls, and layering other strips of dough
together with <a href="http://joythebaker.com/2011/03/cinnamon-sugar-pull-apart-bread/" target="_blank">a ridiculous amount of cinnamon sugar</a> in between. Nothing fancy, just comfort food...but I'm harboring a longing to try <a href="http://joythebaker.com/2013/06/homemade-hot-dog-buns/" target="_blank">homemade hotdog buns</a> soon. We'll see. </div>
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<span lang="EN">Recently we learned to make doughnuts, and I loved cutting out
floury circles, and – the best part - little floury doughnut holes. Oh, joy!
Oh, bliss! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Oh, dentist!</span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN">Just kidding. No cavities so far.</span></div>
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<br />
Playing is messy but so necessary. We need it from the earliest
of ages. When we are little and don’t have enough play and touch and
interaction, many things that should just be routine are anxiety-provoking, unfamiliar territory.</div>
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<span lang="EN">Fear comes into play. Literally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">We learned a little – just a tiny bit – about this during some
adoption trainings. We’ve learned quite a bit more, as usually happens, through
actual experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Our first experience was during our first trip to Spaghettia in
March of last year. We gave Reagan some playdoh – all kids like play-doh,
right? – and when she squeezed it, she cried. She was scared of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">We thought, <i>Hmm, that’s
weird</i>, and found different toys to play with. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">We’ve been home together for almost a year now, and we’re
learning more and more. It’s tricky; there don’t seem to be any hard and fast
rules about <a href="http://www.sensory-processing-disorder.com/sensory-processing-disorder-checklist.html">sensory
issues</a>. Not all symptoms or characteristics may be present. A child can be
both hypersensitive and hyposensitive. And – I just love this – “<i>Inconsistency is a hallmark of every
neurological dysfunction.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Well. Thanks so much. That’s just great.</span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br /></span>
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<span lang="EN"><br /></span>
<br />
<div>
Anyway, we’re doing lots of play. So many things are new and
intimidating, and we focus on making new things familiar so they lose their
fear. Messy play, creative play, textures, temperatures, movement, sound…sensory
play. Of course, we never called it that before. We just called it…play. The
only difference is that we don’t take it for granted anymore.</div>
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<div class="MsoBodyText">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Courier New';">...My
object is to show that the chief function of a child – his business in the
world during the first six or seven years of his life – is to find out all he
can, about whatever comes under his notice, by means of his five senses; that
he has an insatiable appetite for knowledge got in this way; and that,
therefore, the endeavor of his parents should be to put him in the way of
making acquaintance freely with Nature and natural objects.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Courier New';">-
Charlotte Mason, <i>Home Education</i></span></blockquote>
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She loves playdoh now. And not just for eating.</div>
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<span lang="EN">(Kidding. She’s only eaten it twice…I think…)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Tonight after bedtime, Chamberlain came downstairs with a splinter
in her fingertip that, while certainly painful, somehow magically did not
become so until after we tucked her in. Vince and I took turns poking with the
tweezers amid her shrieks and tears, but to no avail…we can’t pinch the splinter out, the tweezers can’t grasp
it, and it’s unavoidable…the dreaded implement must be used. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">You know the one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">The fearsome sewing needle. (<i>gasp!)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Say it ain’t so!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Actually, I’m not saying it at all. I’m handing her a stuffed
doggie that happens to be within arm’s reach and what I <i>do</i> find myself saying is, “I think Pup has a splinter, too. How
about you check him with the tweezers -” putting those useless things into her
right hand, “while I look at your splinter a little more?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN">It was a stroke of divine genius that didn’t come
from me at all. And it worked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN">She is engrossed in Pup’s right paw while I am holding her left
paw and poking it with the needle. She has no idea I’m even holding a needle.
She hardly notices that I have exposed the end of the splinter and she is
jabbering to Pup about how he must be more careful in the woods around the
rosebushes…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN">I ask her if we can trade. She looks at me with surprise and
hands me the tweezers and takes the needle that she didn’t even know I had and continues
Pup’s surgery. One more pinch on her rosy fingertip and the tweezers grasp the
splinter…and it’s out. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN">We look at it together. Out in the open, it's just a tiny little thing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN">Cham toddles back to bed. I toddle back to the kitchen, thinking about what just happened...and He tells me:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i><span lang="EN">You are the one
holding Pup.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN">I almost dropped the tweezers. </span><i>What?</i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN">He explains. He says that as we learn about these kids…all
six of them…and we look for their owies that need healed and the things they
need to learn, and we kiss them and cry over them and are engrossed in their
need for restoration and growth…<b>He is holding
the needle.</b> He is working on us.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
There are owies and impurities inside me, and He is calmly,
carefully, quietly pulling them out as I jabber on and on to Him about the pups
that I’m holding. Things that used to intimidate me are almost normal now, and
I don’t even cry over other things that used to scare me, and I've hardly noticed because my attention has been focused on these pups.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN">As we teach and comfort our kids, </span>He is pulling fears out – these little bitty things that cause so much pain – and brings
them out to the open so we can look at it together.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
He sends us toddling off, free, <span lang="EN">showing us new ways to play so we can be anxious for nothing...because </span>He loves to watch us rise.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
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<br />
<br /></div>
sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-87301285861730361082013-07-13T14:16:00.000-08:002013-07-13T20:09:41.351-08:00oh...make them scour the anchor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
It's a fascinating thing about boys: five seconds after you tuck in their angelic little faces, you close the door, get half a step away from their room, and utter bedlam breaks loose.<br />
<br />
Almost every night, same thing. <i>No talking</i>, I tell them. <i>No goofing off,</i> I tell them.<i> And absolutely, under no circumstances, <b>no wrestling</b></i>, I tell them.<br />
<br />
Smiling nods. Suppressed giggles. I am prepared. I shut the door...wait...and <i>kaBOOM</i>. Someone has set off Roman candles while simultaneously doing the high dive off the bunkbed.<br />
<br />
Okay, maybe not exactly that. But it sounds close.<br />
<br />
So we've had enough. Not tired, boys?<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(click to enlarge)</span></div>
<br />
We've had them swat mosquitoes, pull weeds, do push ups, scrub lawn chairs, clean out the rain gutters, anything we can think of at the moment to help them decide that being in bed is a good idea.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Moms also need to keep boys' little minds and hands busy. It's in their best interest to do so. My father once said about our energetic toddler, "If you let that kid get bored, you deserve what he's going to do to you." Shirley's stepfather, who has a South Dakota accent, once said after baby-sitting our kids for a week, "Oh, der good kids. You just gotta keep 'em out in da open."</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">- James Dobson, <i>Bringing Up Boys</i></span></blockquote>
Tonight I was proactive. I had two of the boys run ten laps around the house right from the get-go. Problem was, I didn't expect one of them to take a drink out of the hose somewhere around lap seven, and then decide that his brother also needed a drink...while he was running...and not expecting the full force of thirty-degree water to hit him in the face as he rounded the corner.<br />
<br />
My grandma raised five boys, and she let all of them live to tell about it. There's a story about one of the boys - I won't mention who, but<span style="font-size: x-small;"> (cough)</span> he's the one most closely related to me - he was sitting on top of a cardboard box with his pocketknife, just stabbing the box, over and over...and the <i>only reason</i> (he says) he got in trouble for it was because...his little brother was inside the box.<br />
<br />
It's a miracle that I'm here to tell you about this, really.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Yesterday one of the boys hid Iree's much-loved locket in the tiny crevice between the floor of our garage and the pavement of the driveway, wedging it in just perfectly so that it fell (!) beyond reach and vision. Thirty minutes later, after chipping concrete and poking around with a flashlight and a hacksaw blade, Vince and Mattie emerged victorious, and fifteen hours later the perpetrator was still working off the consequences for it, carefully filling in the crevice with dirt and doing a few other chores just for good measure.<br />
<br />
This afternoon, he put soap on Reagan's toothbrush. Ha ha.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">This gave me occasion to</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 17px;"> observe that when men are employed they are best contented; for on the days they worked they were good natured and cheerful, and, with the consciousness of having done a good day's work, they spent the evening jollily; but on our idle days they were mutinous and quarrelsome, finding fault with their pork, the bread, etc., and in continual ill humor, which put me in mind of a sea-captain whose rule it was to keep his men constantly at work; and when his mate once told him that they had done everything, and there was nothing further to employ them about, "Oh," says he, <b>"make them scour the anchor."</b></span><b> </b></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; line-height: 17px;"><i>- The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin</i></span></blockquote>
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So tonight, this particular little man is on the back deck. After expressing that he really <i>wanted </i>to run laps after bedtime, he learned that not everyone gets the consequence he is hoping for...and he is out there with a commission to get ten mosquitoes and a yogurt lid to display them on as evidence.<br />
<br />
Minutes of whining, sulking defiance, and halfhearted mosquito-swatting pass. He has thrown the yogurt lid out onto the lawn and declared he won't do it. It starts to drizzle,<span id="goog_953671876"></span> because God loves me<span id="goog_953671877"></span>.<br />
<br />
"Mom!! Iss raining!"<br />
<br />
"I know!! You should probably start obeying soon and get those mosquitoes!" Smile. <br />
<br />
Furrowed eyebrows, and I can see he is considering it.<br />
<br />
I check on him a few minutes later. He's got four of them on the lid, and he catches my eye.<br />
<br />
"Dere's no 'oskeetoes!" he protests. I can see them hovering around the back of his head. One of them lands and he swats. Examines his hands, all ten fingers, and scrapes the remains of his prey onto the lid. Shrugs and pouts, letting the lid tilt carelessly as he scans the horizon for sympathy, for release, for another mosquito - he suddenly realizes what he is doing and rights the lid quickly, but too late - he's back down to four mosquitoes.<br />
<br />
He looks through the window, but can't see me - Sophie's sitting on the counter in front of me and I'm ducking behind her in muffled hysterics.<br />
<br />
He inspects the floor of the deck. Sadly, not only is the mosquito that fell off of the lid not there, but no other dead insects have chosen to lie in repose in that exact spot for his sole benefit, either.<br />
<br />
Attachment issues come into play, and he tells me that he is done as often as he can make eye contact, with six, then eight, then nine, then eight again, and finally twelve (you heard me mention attachment, yes?) dead or dying mosquitoes. Eventually he is sent to bed without much further drama, and I didn't have to drag him (or drug him) to get there. Win.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Tomorrow, Vince will be home at bedtime. It will be <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/03/an-interruption-in-our-regularly.html" target="_blank">our almost-sacred date night</a> and we'll have no sympathy for disturbers of the peace. If they pull another stunt, we will take orders from friends who need help lawn mowing, weed-whacking, dandelion-pulling, driveway sweeping, garden watering, leaf-raking, window-washing, or any other anchor-scouring you can think of. You can even play the <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-underwear-strikes-back.html" target="_blank">Imperial Death March </a>for them while they work; I've heard they like it.<br />
<br />
But maybe you shouldn't ask them to water your garden. One of them might get thirsty...and decide to use the hose...on someone else.<br />
<br />
Smile.<br />
<br />sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-2455693440709783762013-07-12T00:16:00.000-08:002013-07-13T10:39:36.328-08:00spilling over<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Sometimes I come here full. I have a myriad of thoughts and notes and pictures all rattling around, just waiting to be spilled on paper or screen and put in the right order.<br />
<br />
But other times I arrive empty. Blank screen, white space, just...dry bones, and crickets. Not because there's nothing to tell, but because there is and I don't know how to say it yet. Care to sit with me for a few minutes while I wait for the words to show up?<br />
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It's been a blurry week that started with a blurry phone call early Sunday morning. There are some calls that you wish would never happen, even if you are expecting them. Grief covers the sky and prayer changes directions like the wind.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">oh Lord, You've searched me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You know my way</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">even when I fail You </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I know You love me</span></div>
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We hiked the Butte a few days ago, took all six kids up the (little) mountain for some therapy for all of us. These days have been sparkling, all sunny in one direction and heavy slate clouds on the other. When the sunlight comes from a certain angle it makes the trees glitter.<br />
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We spilled out of the Stagecoach and donned our backpacks and water bottles. We weren't twenty feet away from where we parked when Cham handed hers to me, declaring it was too heavy.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Your holy presence surrounding me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">in every season I know You love me</span></div>
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It was our first hike of the year, and Andrey and Reagan's first (real) hike, ever. They did great...even Reagan...even when we came to the foot of the endless staircase.</div>
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She charged right up to it. This was taken before she tried to grab the cow parsnip that was growing next to the railing (that was a close one). </div>
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The bigger kids ran ahead, ran back, and ran circles around us and whoever was holding our hands. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You go before me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You shield my way</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Your hand upholds me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I know You love me</span></div>
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Eternity looks us in the face every day. It doesn't matter if we arrive empty or full - if we dare to look back, right in the Eyes, something will start to flow, even in dry bones. We need it.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">at the cross I bow my knee</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">where Your blood was shed for me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">there's no greater love than this</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You have overcome the grave</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Your glory fills the highest place</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">what can separate me now?</span></div>
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I was fine all Sunday morning until we sang this song after Communion. And then I spilled over, and was a mess as He put me back in the right order.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You tore the veil</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You made a way </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">when You said that it is done</span></div>
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I looked back at Eternity: so sunny in that direction that the trees glittered, though the clouds behind us in the Shadowlands were only slate grey...and someone new there waved. He was with my sister, my son, and others.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and when the earth fades</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">falls from my eyes</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and You stand before me</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I know You love me</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aF-5aO2GYiY" target="_blank"><i style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">- </i><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Hillsong</span><i style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">, At the Cross</i></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
We be filled and more, to overflowing. We will spill over.<br />
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<i style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>I know You love me.</b></i><br />
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sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-81152349593690983082013-07-05T22:54:00.000-08:002013-07-06T00:10:46.990-08:00quiet resting places<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">The sun is rising here long before we are awake. The light is
streaming, the shadows shrinking, and kids are stirring. This is just the
beginning…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv48695fCVQemLllcrfIEQXLJluRNccowy5qBl3nXu2lTT_Hc9iFJndQqj3hbHHgvq2u1uKo4DDA-hhx-xa66tfYKiqw5JuIoL22g5bHpyWV3qJYAPiZolLLatPhzuXjrfuI-J0P5EFPw/s1600/peaceful+habitation+(750x1000).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv48695fCVQemLllcrfIEQXLJluRNccowy5qBl3nXu2lTT_Hc9iFJndQqj3hbHHgvq2u1uKo4DDA-hhx-xa66tfYKiqw5JuIoL22g5bHpyWV3qJYAPiZolLLatPhzuXjrfuI-J0P5EFPw/s320/peaceful+habitation+(750x1000).jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">…because later, the cat is throwing up and the tea kettle is
whistling and the phone is ringing and the kids are running and three children
are calling for mommy when someone knocks on the door asking if we want our
carpet cleaned. And we do, but not this second, and not by a solicitor who
wants an audience.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Sometimes it’s everything at once, and other times it’s just one
thing at a time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Either way, there is something I’m learning in both the quiet and
the chaos:</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
time of business does not with me differ from the time of prayer; and in the
noise and clutter of my kitchen, while several persons are at the same time
calling for different things, I possess God in as great tranquility as if I
were upon my knees at the Blessed Sacrament.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">- Brother Lawrence</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I’m practicing, and getting better.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Afton asks about volcanoes, and I’m drawing eruptions and the
sedimentary layers of lava flow on the back of a Costco receipt…and He’s there.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Nerf darts are flying over my head and hitting my leg as I type in the middle of the crossfire, and He’s there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">I see a puddle of cat puke on the dining room floor…except it’s
dripping from the bench…that a child is sitting on…and I realize, <i>oh, expletive</i>, it’s not cat puke at all
but an entirely different kind of volcanic explosion. And I stand there
stupefied, wondering what to do first. It takes me a few minutes before I realize
that He’s there, too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtVwWlgalsZj-E5I_DiH5nr1a6Aq95U2Lyq1suqPSncOpCPt13-LsNwtFg2vBTacA-iu070mOwRZcZhMSnZr2CgyJUiFrS43uDLPXaWr3ax-B9dZ_BlQ3pqGRhr7fOxqs2_70yBMF8sY/s1600/Capture.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtVwWlgalsZj-E5I_DiH5nr1a6Aq95U2Lyq1suqPSncOpCPt13-LsNwtFg2vBTacA-iu070mOwRZcZhMSnZr2CgyJUiFrS43uDLPXaWr3ax-B9dZ_BlQ3pqGRhr7fOxqs2_70yBMF8sY/s320/Capture.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(click to enlarge)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">I cleaned the floor and the bench and the skin – hers and<i> </i>oh yes, mine, too – and the clothes and everything and everywhere else. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">He was right
there, the whole time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">O
my God, since Thou art with me, and I must now, in obedience to Thy commands,
apply my mind to these outward things, I beseech Thee to grant me the grace to
continue in Thy presence; and to this end do Thou prosper me with Thy
assistance, receive all my works, and possess all my affections.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">-
Brother Lawrence, <i>The Practice of the
Presence of God</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMNJuuXihhPsDK67tEOY-FmqAVOS5kLXfqxsQWyGgtm5nqCRT2QFb8mUmm8FcJtsMFQKV60UOM1lzETLQLfIsmz0IYIqPkusiR5unkLw7y092Bvx1ydgH3WyMx2o5p-1LZoMd7uMv1bk/s1600/IMG_3832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMNJuuXihhPsDK67tEOY-FmqAVOS5kLXfqxsQWyGgtm5nqCRT2QFb8mUmm8FcJtsMFQKV60UOM1lzETLQLfIsmz0IYIqPkusiR5unkLw7y092Bvx1ydgH3WyMx2o5p-1LZoMd7uMv1bk/s320/IMG_3832.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">He is no less there in the chaos than the calm, but <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/10/2-am-breather.html" target="_blank">sometimes we listen better when it’s quiet.</a> Sometimes we can hear Him better in our dreams, in our
sleep, in our dormancy. We lay ourselves down…and sometimes we can hear what
we would not listen to in our waking hours.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
do not know Him!” murmured Lilith, in a voice of fear and doubt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Therefore
it is that thou are miserable,” said Adam.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
will go back whence I came!” she cried, and turned, wringing her hands, to
depart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“That
is indeed what I would have thee do, where I would have thee go – to Him from
whom thou camest! In thy agony didst thou not cry out for Him?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
cried out for Death – to escape Him and thee!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Death
is even now on his way to lead thee to Him. Thou knowest neither Death nor the
Life that dwells in Death! Both befriend thee. I am dead, and would see thee
dead, for I live and love thee. Thou art weary and heavy-laden: are thou not
ashamed? Is not the being thou hast corrupted become to thee at length an evil
thing? Wouldst thou yet live on in disgrace eternal? Cease thou canst not: wilt
thou not be restored and BE?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
stood silent with a bowed head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixj60ADCfcQChkvD6wCp0pw3pL7cm9lBbVCXq2_gFxpRYhw3ObSegHSUirZsHMsdvLv7DhB0cmn6JHLumoj9P6SnPeg7TA9xc05E3n6-Ue_tdCO5LidUgk3bhh61Yd2hJ-h7j5ssU1DsA/s1600/IMG_0690.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixj60ADCfcQChkvD6wCp0pw3pL7cm9lBbVCXq2_gFxpRYhw3ObSegHSUirZsHMsdvLv7DhB0cmn6JHLumoj9P6SnPeg7TA9xc05E3n6-Ue_tdCO5LidUgk3bhh61Yd2hJ-h7j5ssU1DsA/s320/IMG_0690.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Our arguments, our frustrations of the day, our backburner
worries are either buried or resurfaced as we sleep. He is still there. To the
exhausted He says, </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">You have been working
hard; it’s time to rest now.</i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Show
me then to my grave; I am so weary I can live no longer. I must go to the
Shadow – yet I would not!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
did not, could not understand!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
struggled to rise, but fell at the feet of Eve. The Mother lifted, and carried
her inward…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
passed Eve with Lilith in her arms, and went father in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
shall not go to the Shadow,” I heard Eve say, as we passed them. “Even now is
his head under my heel!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">He is there with the dying, and tells them, <i>You have been working hard. It’s time to rest now.</i> In this time, He
is speaking and preparing and ministering, and we who are here and waiting know
nothing of its mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzRWrPpsvFG4NDXHGCrVMoQwwlyLsUXFfmhNiM710nHOk2MtZF4468kNX0eSzlKFksLMDm9eJ3jQwSPKNSoG0sQpyaeqmaV7JQw1RJuhxfJrOAFxPhIEo872OpvQffmcIv08HrakA9SA/s1600/IMG_1063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzRWrPpsvFG4NDXHGCrVMoQwwlyLsUXFfmhNiM710nHOk2MtZF4468kNX0eSzlKFksLMDm9eJ3jQwSPKNSoG0sQpyaeqmaV7JQw1RJuhxfJrOAFxPhIEo872OpvQffmcIv08HrakA9SA/s320/IMG_1063.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">And later, He will tell those who have cared for them, <i>You have been working very hard. I know how
hard it has been. It’s time to rest now.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
glanced at her daughter lying before her like a statue carved in
semi-transparent alabaster, and shuddered from head to foot. “How cold it is!”
she murmured.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
will soon begin to find comfort in the cold,” answered Adam.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Promises
to the dying are easy!” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“But
I know it: I too have slept. I am dead!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
believed you dead long ago; but I see you alive!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“More
alive than you know, or are able to understand. I was scarce alive when first
you knew me. Now I have slept, and am awake; I am dead, and live indeed!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
fear that child,” she said, pointing to Lona: “she will rise and terrify me!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“She
is dreaming love to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“But
the Shadow!” she moaned, “I fear the Shadow! He will be wroth with me!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“He
at sight of whom the horses of heaven start and rear, dares not disturb one
dream in this quiet chamber!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">-
George MacDonald, <i>Lilith</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-caGrvzEcu69jt1eZLas_pEhNf9NOZlWBpHjJe8pZqZmWqSJh1rWNRcbpzeaFba653nC5Kk56bMeehQE1AnSWIWgqLYM-01DJyMMhozKOp9gOkUGdJLb49CrAGvetCma4hSLufOahus/s1600/IMG_3296+(1000x417).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-caGrvzEcu69jt1eZLas_pEhNf9NOZlWBpHjJe8pZqZmWqSJh1rWNRcbpzeaFba653nC5Kk56bMeehQE1AnSWIWgqLYM-01DJyMMhozKOp9gOkUGdJLb49CrAGvetCma4hSLufOahus/s320/IMG_3296+(1000x417).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">He is there with comfort, with answers, with rest. If we ask, He
will tell us things that dispel every shadow that we have long feared. He will
show us how to clean the mess. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">And in the morning, He will be there long before we awake. The
light will be streaming, and it will be just the beginning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"><br /></span></div>
sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-19176826152485025752013-06-29T12:38:00.000-08:002013-06-30T00:49:54.040-08:00something beautiful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Guess what we did this week.<br />
<br />
Really. Guess.<br />
<br />
No, I didn't quit coffee. (Are you kidding me?)<br />
<br />
I'll tell you before you get any other crazy ideas. I had the utter joy of introducing my whole family to one of my most-loved books of all time. On the weekends, over a month, I read it out loud, and during the week I was sick, Vince took over and read to us.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The long platform was almost deserted; the only living creature in sight being a girl who was sitting on a pile of shingles at the extreme end...She was sitting there waiting for something or somebody and, since sitting and waiting was the only thing to do just then, she sat and waited with all her might and main.</span></blockquote>
We finished it a few days ago. All of us, even Vince...especially Vince...we read it all together. I hadn't read <i>Anne of Green Gables</i> in years, since I was pregnant with my own red-haired, grey-green-eyed girl, and blew through the whole series for the umpteenth time over the second trimester.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The Avonlea school was a whitewashed building low in the eaves and wide in the windows...</span></blockquote>
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This book has always comforted me, ever since being introduced to it by my fifth grade teacher who retained her title as my favorite even after I graduated high school. She read <i>Anne </i>aloud to us, and had one of my classmates take over the reading for one particular chapter toward the end (you know the one) because she could never get through it without crying.<br />
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There are some authors that can look into a room and describe only the trash, the filth, the greasy lifestyle (this is why Steinbeck and I are not friends) and there are others who can look in the same room and see the hardworking mother, the hopeful child, and the steaming bowl of broth on the table that, admittedly, probably still needs to have the crumbs and spills from the previous meal wiped off of it.<br />
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We find beauty by looking for it. Even when the windows are dirty.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The east gable was a very different place from what it had been on that night four years before, when Anne had felt its bareness penetrate to the marrow of her spirit with its inhospitable chill. Changes had crept in...</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The velvet carpet with the pink roses and the pink silk curtains of Anne's early visions had certainly never materialized; but her dreams had kept pace with her growth, and it is not probable she lamented them.</span></blockquote>
Sometimes I am so caught up in the dirt and laundry and pain and bickering. I forget something.<br />
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A month ago we went to a barbecue at our dear friends' house. As we always do in large groups of people, we spent the evening on high alert watching Andrey and Reagan for attachment issues, while still trying to carry on adult conversations on a somewhat coherent level. We intervened when a child hugged a total stranger and wouldn't let go. We pulled a child out of a game for following another adult around instead of actually playing. We held a child after she kept trying to seek out attention from another Mommy. In the midst of catching up with wonderful friends, we were a little harried and constantly on the lookout for red flags, trying not to make anyone else feel they needed to walk on eggshells around us. I don't know if we succeeded.<br />
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We gathered our crew to go home. I was walking away and a friend stopped me. Over the course of the evening she saw many of the issues we dealt with and we had talked at length about all the gory details. Her glasses were not rose-colored.<br />
<br />
She smiled at me and said:<br />
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<i>"I just love watching you guys...you are doing a beautiful thing."</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">needlework: a gift from my dear friend Jeanette at <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/wordzoflife" target="_blank">Wordz For Life</a></span></div>
<br />
I had forgotten. Her reminder was a gift. And...tears. Still.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Dear old world," she murmured, "you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."</span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">- L.M. Montgomery, <i>Anne of Green Gables</i></span></blockquote>
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I forget that two kids who were fighting hammer and tongs until last month are now playing cards and laughing together.<br />
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I forget that Reagan, who was mostly non-verbal a year ago, now speaks in halting English phrases, and sometimes even sentences.<br />
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Afton is not just playing with Legos; he is building a machine with a rag attached to it...for scrubbing the floor. Awesome, yes?<br />
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Sophie, my almost constant companion, loves me so much that she interrupted me last night while I was writing to nuzzle my pen. An ink mark on a white kitty's nose is pretty unforgiving, and it will remind everyone for the next few days that I am her favorite human.<br />
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In the middle of circumstances and inconvenience, between the chaos and the cacophony...we forget.<br />
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We are living something beautiful. Sometimes we need a reminder to keep looking for it.<br />
<br />sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-14429616967301808662013-06-20T15:07:00.000-08:002013-06-28T00:46:36.578-08:00in a fever<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There are crumpled tissues everywhere, and I'm a little dizzy. My head is throbbing, my temperature is high, and my eyes are watering. There are a million things to do, but I am stuck in one place, right here, with my head floating somewhere near the ceiling.<br />
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It's just like being stuck in a checkout line at Walmart...for five days straight.<br />
<br />
Well, not quite so bad as that, I guess.<br />
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Days of various stages of a cold and fever, my head hurting, my face hurting...the whistle of the teapot might as well be the scream of the Nazgul flying overhead. Vin has taken the kids to the store a few times so I could rest in a quiet house, alone with the cats and the tissues and tea.<br />
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Just me. Me, on the couch with the white cat at my feet, and the stripey cat on the other couch, laying on top of a mountain of unfolded laundry. We are all equally productive.<br />
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And yet...if I could move off the couch, I would fly free through the house. I would fold the laundry, I would scour the kitchen, I would have lunch prepped and ready for their return. I would water the plants that are wilting and I would even polish the teapot. I would tackle that writing project and balance the checkbook. I would be in a fever to conquer all of the big and little mountains that are neglected through the week in this brief oasis of time and space of quiet. Of peace.<br />
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I think of all these things, and sneeze. Wipe my nose, wipe my eyes, and wipe the agenda. I look at the pile of tissues scattered all around me...consider picking them all up...and remember how utterly exhausted I am. My greatest accomplishment this week has been to read the last 29 chapters of George MacDonald's<i> The Princess and Curdie.</i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i>A mountain is a strange and awful thing. In old times, without knowing so much of their strangeness and awfulness as we do, people were yet more afraid of mountains. But then somehow they had not come to see how beautiful they are as well as awful, and they hated them - and what people hate they must fear. Now that we have learned to look at them with admiration, perhaps we do not feel quite awe enough of them. To me they are beautiful terrors.</i></span></blockquote>
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We've been having a heat wave in Alaska and passed 90 degrees on Monday. My temperature hovered just around 100. We missed church on Sunday for Father's Day and actually called in sick for the first time in years. I think. Wait a minute...what were we talking about, again? My brain is fuzzy and ideas are fleeting...oh, yes - Father's Day.<br />
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So we played hooky. Four of the kids were hacking and coughing and could not go to their classes anyway, and the thought of them coughing and hacking on us in the middle of the service, in the middle of the sanctuary, did not appeal. But by the afternoon, it was 85 degrees and we decided to suck it up and go to one of our favorite places for a picnic. We would sweat it out.<br />
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We went to Hatcher's Pass. Right up to the mountains.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i>I will try to tell you what they are. They are portions of the heart of the earth that have escaped from the dungeon down below, and rushed up and out. For the heart of the earth is a great wallowing mass, not of blood, as in the hearts of men and animals, but of glowing hot, melted metals and stones. And as our hearts keep us alive, so that great lump of heat keeps the earth alive: it is a huge power of buried sunlight - that is what it is.</i></span></blockquote>
We stopped right there, not bothering to go further up. We walked a little and looked at the Little Su. We waded in it. We threw rocks and sticks in it. We argued about whether it is a river (it is) or a creek (more like it). Depending on who you ask.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i>Now think: out of that cauldron, where all the bubbles would be as big as the Alps if it could get room for its boiling, certain bubbles have bubbled out and escaped - up and away, and there they stand in the cool, cold sky - mountains.</i></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">- George MacDonald, <i>The Princess and Curdie </i></span></blockquote>
But you know what happens when you call in sick and then decide to suck it up and go somewhere, don't you?<br />
<br />
Sometimes...you get busted.<br />
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<br />
There we were, leisurely picnicking along the Little Susitna, and a vehicle pulls up. Two vehicles, actually. And hands are waving at us out of their windows...and attached to the hands are our dear, smiling friends. We had missed seeing them at church that day. And, apparently, they noticed our absence. And I didn't hear it myself, but I think this is the phrase Vin heard one of them say, grinning:<br />
<br />
"Sure, we cover for you at church and then come up here and catch you goofing off!" <i>Guilty. Come a little closer, pal, and let me sneeze on you.</i><br />
<br />
That was Sunday. I remember it because we have pictures and I'm pretty sure I was there. I don't remember much about yesterday, though. Something about soup, followed by ice cream. Lots of tissues...<br />
<br />
Wait, it's coming back to me. Vince took the kids to Walmart to...buy...something? I don't know. I just have these vague memories of him saying he was going there with all six kids, and me reaching toward him in desperation: <i>"Don't do it! You don't have to prove that you're a hero!" </i>But he did, and survived, and came home in a fever, swearing to never do it again.<br />
<br />
But he is a hero. So he went again the next day, with all six kids...to a different store.<br />
<br />
My energy ebbs and flows, comes and goes like sunlight on a partly cloudy day. And here I sit, at the foot of a mountain of laundry and to-do lists that will also sit. I will breathe and rest at the feet of the One who heals me. I will stop right here and go the rest of the way up the mountain on a different day.<br />
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The things on my to-do list are beautiful terrors that I will conquer later in the week.<br />
<br />
Unless Vince beats me to it. Because he's a hero like that. He makes me dizzy, too.<br />
<br />sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-75058579545769617272013-06-10T21:45:00.000-08:002013-06-10T21:45:26.249-08:00oh, my soul<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
My head is bowed, my eyes are closed. Tears are welling and the Spirit is moving mightily. And yet in the midst of incredibly powerful worship, I've discovered that if I feel the slightest tickle of a mosquito trying to make itself comfortable on my raised arm, I will cream that sucker into oblivion without shame or hesitation while singing <i>Bless the Lord, Oh My Soul</i>. I didn't miss a note, and I didn't feel bad about it, either.<br />
<br />
I had no idea I was so talented.<br />
<br />
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<br />
The weather has been <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/05/glorious-is-coming.html" target="_blank">glorious </a>(see? I told you) and the kids have been outside for hours and days on end. We've tracked dirt hither and yon through the house and our feet have those sticky little birch seeds almost permanently embedded in our soles. All of the kids - fair and dark, red-haired, brown-haired, and black-haired - have all tanned several shades darker than they were in May. And me? I think I've gained, maybe, half a freckle. Nothing new here.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">the sun comes up</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">it's a new day dawning</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">it's time to sing Your song again</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">whatever may pass and whatever lies before me</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">let me be singing when the evening comes</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<br />
But back to those mosquitoes that are big enough to cast a moving shadow. Reagan, with sensory issues that are so common in many children that have been adopted, apparently cannot feel the mosquitoes when they are on her. She doesn't know to defend herself against them and they use her as an all-you-can-eat snack bar. We tell people that she has the mosquito pox.<br />
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<br />
In contrast is the other child who has wiped out on her bike and comes in the house with road rash. We survey the damage, and there is screaming and tears and blood and more than a little dirt. Iree is faced with a mama holding peroxide, and she sniffles and asks the dreaded question:<br />
<br />
"Will it hurt?"<br />
<br />
I decide to just pour it on and answer later. It's entirely possible that, amid the bloodcurdling screams that followed, she never heard me say "Yes."<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's better to just not ask. We're face to face with the<a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/01/let-it-break.html" target="_blank"> remedy</a>, with<a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/01/let-it-break.html" target="_blank"> the Lion standing at the stream</a> that we are thirsting for, and we know it will be painful. We're not really asking if it will hurt, because we know the answer to that. It will hurt.<br />
<br />
What we are really asking is, <i>Do I have to?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">You're rich in love </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and You're slow to anger</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Your name is great and Your heart is kind</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">for all Your goodness I will keep on singing</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">ten thousand reasons for my heart to find</span></div>
<i><br /></i>
We don't have to, always. We can refuse to take it, refuse to feel it, <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/04/us-concentrate.html" target="_blank">refuse to soak and let our colors deepen.</a> We can refuse to go there and choose infection instead. But <b>there is no other stream</b>...and our dry places will stay thirsty.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Sometimes there are seasons of pain that just roll through like waves. They keep on coming, and you know another one is about to crash, and <i>oh, my soul</i>...the grief is large enough to cast a moving shadow.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and on that day when my strength is failing</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">the end draws near and my time has come</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">still my soul will sing Your praise unending</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">ten thousand years and then forevermore</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">- Matt Redman, <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXDGE_lRI0E" target="_blank">Ten Thousand Reasons</a></i></span></div>
<br />
He has us running to the stream again and again, soaking in the water and coming out stronger. Every day He has us singing His goodness without shame or hesitation, while He sends the shadow to oblivion. We won't miss a note...and we won't feel bad about it, either.<br />
<br />
<br />sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-37562783693704950652013-06-07T00:14:00.000-08:002013-06-07T00:17:30.229-08:00chasing legos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We start the day all dignified-like. A dishtowel in the kitchen hangs over the handle to the stove, and another towel hangs in the bathroom on the hook. Breakfast is eaten, chores are done, dishes are washed.<br />
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For now. For at least twelve seconds.<br />
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Daddy leaves for work and the school day commences. Three kids are at the table, three kids are all over the place, and my brain starts to scatter. Someone needs help with math, someone needs supervised, someone needs wiped, and someone needs to know if <i>road rash</i> is a compound word, totally separate words, or hyphenated. The laundry needs flipped and the dishwasher needs to be emptied soon and, now that I think about it, I'm not sure if I remembered to turn on the dryer last night. Huh.<br />
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The bummer is that I just finished my coffee and this is as alert as I'm going to get until tea time.<br />
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There are emails to answer and things that must be researched and decisions that have to be made. Follow-up phone calls and a deadline or two looming. Dust and laundry don't stop for anyone, and children that just ate an hour ago are still going to ask about the next meal in less than ten minutes. (You feel this, too?)<br />
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Aside from the daily agenda, there are so many other things we <i>want </i>to do: grow veggies, harvest herbs, and learn about wild plants growing under our nose on our property. We have forts to build and needlework stitches to practice and several sewing projects in the wings. There are stories to be written and journals to be filled and a million books on our shelves beckoning for a snuggle in a sunbeam on the couch with us.<br />
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There is this longing...and you know all about it. I know that you know, because we talk about it often.<br />
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And He knows, also, because we talk about it often, too. And He's right there,<a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/10/2-am-breather.html" target="_blank"> reminding me to breathe</a>. Wait, and listen...and He says,<i> One thing at a time. Slow and easy. Take it in small, simple chunks. Little steps.</i><br />
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I corral the little wanderers back downstairs where I can see them. We get math and dishes going simultaneously, and I start stacking plates and bowls and saucers on the counter. They can wait right there. The laundry can wait. Grammar and spelling can wait. This is life just-one-or-two-things-at-a-time, and<a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/01/if-you-run.html" target="_blank"> I am running</a>, and I can't do it all at once any more than I can put all of these dishes away at once.<br />
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It's still morning and we are in the thick of it, in the midst of teaching arithmetic, putting away silverware, stepping in a puddle of water, cleaning up a spill with our third dishtowel of the day, stacking pots and pans in the cabinet, throwing my wet socks in the washer, finding someone else's dirty socks on the floor, putting those in the washer, putting away the last of the dishes, putting new dirty dishes back in the dishwasher, planning lunch, and - ohmygoodness! I just remembered. There's a child on the potty.<br />
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Whoops. I'm pretty sure she's done by now.<br />
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Slowly the list gets checked off. Lots of things wait until after naptime, after bedtime, until tomorrow. Sometimes they wait until next week. But what has to get done is done, and it doesn't have to be in my time frame.<br />
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Or other people's time frames, either. We finally turned in work samples this week that were due three weeks ago...and then received a gracious note from our contact teacher (who is the sweetest ever) gently reminding us that we could turn in the progress reports any time, as well.<br />
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<i><b>Oh, my word.</b> Completely forgot about those. Coming right up...</i><br />
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I emailed them twenty minutes ago. High five.<br />
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Anyway. It's afternoon, after assignments, everyone is playing. Most of the kids are outside, and Mattie and I are watching Gus attack his nemesis..<i>.the dangerous, the loathsome, the terrible...the tiny</i>..<i>.</i><i>lego brick</i>.<br />
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It is a lesson on the inefficiency of frantic motion. Watch with us: <i>The ferocious tigah stalks his prey...</i><br />
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Gus crouches, springs at the lego, sends it flying as he skids across the hard floor and - wait a minute! - stops abruptly to lick his paw. Idly looks around again and yowls, confusedly searching for his enemy...aha! Discovers it hiding under a chair. He winds up for a pounce, but suddenly hesitates when he hears us burst out laughing, and stops to look at us with an expression of sudden dignity. We are uninteresting, though, and he remembers the lego piece, leaps on it, and tries to eat it. The dastardly foe is cunning, though, and somehow escapes - our hero races across the room and bats it around the corner, but in his ensuing attempt to follow it he tragically discovers that while the front half of his body is willing, the back part of him is weak...and he spins out, careening wildly, while the lego beats a safe retreat under the piano, never to be seen again.<br />
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No matter. He gets up and shakes it off - the enemy has been vanquished from his kingdom and he is victorious.<br />
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So much effort, so little accomplished. Gus can get away with it, as the privilege of being a charmingly whiskered stripey dude.<br />
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I don't want our days to go like this, though: driven to distraction, frantically spinning, reeling, careening, and then hesitating when I hear the reaction of others. With the front of me willing to start a project, but the back part of me too weak to follow through.<br />
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Let me focus. Think for a minute. And then take just the next step.<br />
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A step moves us forward, but spinning wheels stay in the same place. We don't arrive at the mountain top in one leap.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">And then he bent his own neck and put the chain upon it, and at once his head was bowed to the ground with the weight of the Ring, as if a great stone had been strung on him. But slowly, as if the weight became less, or new strength grew in him, he raised his head, and then with a great effort got to his feet and found that he could walk and bear his burden.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">- JRR Tolkein, <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> </span></blockquote>
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He tells me to focus, and go slow. It takes small steps to conquer the mountain. We may have a musical prodigy on our hands, but we are going to have to learn English first before we astound the world, for crying out loud.<br />
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We make it to lunchtime. One child is already excused, one child is in the bathroom, and four children are at the table. It is six dishtowels later and I'm cleaning a puddle of accident to the tune of four children simultaneously requesting seconds, to be excused, to get a drink of water, etc, and Mommy yells a friendly PSA from the bathroom:<br />
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"WAIT. YOU CAN ALL WAIT FOR AT LEAST THREE MINUTES. DO NOT SPEAK TO ME UNTIL THE TIMER BEEPS."<br />
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I confess I didn't actually set a timer. I am the timer, and I refused to beep for several minutes.<br />
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And we finally got the dishes done. See?<br />
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P.S. Coffee cups don't count.<br />
<br />sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-80501953808183281932013-05-25T18:14:00.000-08:002013-05-30T23:45:38.439-08:00glorious is coming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The laundry is piled on the couch, the dishes are piled on the counter. We are outside on the rug, on the picnic hill, on a dry brown lawn, in 70 degrees. Our feet are bare and our socks are in a pile next to us.<br />
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Last week we had snow. The week before we had rain, flooding, and ducks. Alaska is a capricious frontier, thumbing her nose at anyone who tries to tell her what May should look like.<br />
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But today it is glorious. Trees that were naked this morning unfolded their leaves by the afternoon.<br />
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We school in summer and it changes things. We read our books outside, eat lunch outside, make lots of laundry outside, and try to recover the house somewhat before bedtime. Today, we interrupted a planned assignment to examine a freshly killed mosquito under the microscope. We finished <i>Oliver Twist </i>and <i>Ten Apples Up on Top</i>. We walked to the mailbox.<br />
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Summer isn't the only cause for change, though. We've homeschooled since Mattie's birth and it's been the most natural thing in the world, this reading and learning together family thing...but 12 years into it, we find that we need to make some adjustments to fit everyone's needs that go beyond just our yearly tweaking. What used to work needs to be set aside for what actually works right now. Maybe we'll pick it up and dust it off later, after the dust actually settles.<br />
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I still read to all of the kids. Bigger kids still read to littler kids. We still use the buddy system that works for us: the one where the kids are buddies with each other, and I am buddies with Sophie, whom I periodically run upstairs and hide in the bathroom with. Sometimes one of us brings chocolate.<br />
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My laptop of almost five years recently endured some violence - it went swimming in coffee, and then broke its hinge, among other ailments indicating demise - and had to be replaced with something a little more reliable. Something new (ish). So we got something newish and <strike>I tried really, really hard</strike> I sort of tried to learn how to use it. But I wasn't happy about it.<br />
<br />
The icons looked funny and the email looked ugly and the Word program was weird and the photo editing program worked differently. Things that were streamlined for the sake of efficiency weren't very efficient when my my fingers kept looking for the "end" key but hit the delete key instead. Or worse, the insert key - who uses that, anyway?! (I despise you, Insert Key). Nothing was normal and I raged in frustration and finally cried...more than once.<br />
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Our coffeepot has one button and I can work that machine beautifully. The microwave and I get along because most of the buttons are numerical and I really only need a couple of the other ones that have important words on them like "start" and "cancel." If I concentrate super hard, I can even reset the clock on the oven after a power outage.<br />
<br />
Stupid computers.<br />
<br />
I finally figured it out, though. See? I'm typing on it right now. The other night I fixed two quirks on it as Vince looked on, and I did it by myself. No help, no crying.<br />
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I felt like a genius. It was awesome.<br />
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What is really changing around here is our expectation of what things are supposed to look like. Out of six kids, three of them are only a few months apart in age, but all are learning math at a different level. The only two that can really be paired together right now are Andrey and Chamberlain, who are three years apart. So, grades, schmades. Out the window they go.<br />
<br />
The grades, I mean, not the kids. Well, sometimes...never mind.<br />
<br />
This doesn't mean we lower our standards. Those haven't changed. We keep a vision of greatness for each of our kids, and we notice more and more that when we hold a high standard up for them, they live up to it. If we give them a pass for low standards, they live...down...to that, too.<br />
<br />
We want our kids to live it up...not live it down.<br />
<br />
We have high expectations, but we're learning that we need to take some new routes to achieve them. We can cry in rage and frustration because it feels weird, because<a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/12/this-place-isnt-normal.html" target="_blank"> this place doesn't look normal</a>, or we can learn some new programs and really get somewhere.<br />
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This also doesn't mean that we cave to pressures of political correctness, or to visions of what armchair quarterbacks think things should look like. We don't relinquish parental authority or our own common sense to let other people take over areas that are our responsibility as parents. We can ask for help <i>with discernment</i> without falling to the faulty assumption that "experts know better," because they simply don't. They don't know our children better than we do, and they don't know their needs better than we do...and unfortunately, many of them are only experts in their own eyes, for their own ego. Hard-working parents have no time for that.<br />
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Sometimes it feels like we are constantly letting go of what we thought things should look like right now, <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/01/let-it-break.html" target="_blank">letting it break</a>, letting it soak,<a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/09/deep-and-wide.html" target="_blank"> letting Him scrub us</a>, letting Him move. We're taking on His vision for what things actually do look like right now, in order to get to His vision of what life should look like later: a destiny of greatness.<br />
<br />
We can embrace snow in May because we know glorious is coming. It will be awesome. And you know what else?<br />
<br />
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Weird is just a side effect of awesome.<br />
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sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-1168175773804546052013-05-14T21:54:00.000-08:002013-05-14T21:55:34.955-08:00no boys allowed<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7eR3Y4srT8f4ZctOgUYDH274bxirdSLlBisUbdahv2o94xqEfmqJEkk1T2LQaR_ivZGud6BEtAEJ9NafMiiNXQtaZjr-A7DetMV5M2P9gTe5o2qOmH9z1f8E8rhAYPQxRMnAmtznpac/s1600/IMG_0738+(700x525).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7eR3Y4srT8f4ZctOgUYDH274bxirdSLlBisUbdahv2o94xqEfmqJEkk1T2LQaR_ivZGud6BEtAEJ9NafMiiNXQtaZjr-A7DetMV5M2P9gTe5o2qOmH9z1f8E8rhAYPQxRMnAmtznpac/s320/IMG_0738+(700x525).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just slip quietly into the aisle, make a quick turn behind a
clothing rack, and stay cool.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The furtive glances. The reckless rifling through racks of
clothing. The frantic search for just the right size, and fighting panic at the
sudden sound of a man’s voice as he's walking down the tile path, twenty feet away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m not shoplifting, I promise. It’s worse than that. I’m...I’m…buying
unmentionables. Get me out of here, somebody. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN">There is a host of other things that I’m completely rational about. <span style="font-family: inherit;">I actually enjoy the dentist, and I don’t mind getting my teeth cleaned.
Mondays don’t bother me at all. But there is almost nothing that I dread more than shopping
for underwear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Another woman is across from me, one rack over, and we carefully
avoid eye contact. I rummage through satins and polyesters (egad), scanning tags
for the perfect size, just to be met with a gibbering combination of letters
and numbers that only mean something to adorable highschoolers who have never
experienced childbirth. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I hear a male voice nearby, and the praise that I whisper for being
barely five feet tall and hidden by the rack of hosiery is immediately followed
by a muttered curse toward the young woman who brought her boyfriend in. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, not really. I mean, probably not. I really can’t remember, it
was all so distressing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">34C. 36B. 42A, and on and on. French-cut, high-cut, bikini-cut, and
brief. I’m going to need counseling after this. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There ought to be a precise algorithm just for women who have been
through childbirth and breastfeeding to assist us in finding the perfect fit and style of undergarment:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Start with the size you were before your first pregnancy. Add x for
every childbirth, multiply by y for every child breastfed, divide by the
number of actual months nursing. Finally, subtract n times pi for how
many years it’s been since weaning your youngest child and proceed to the nearest liquor store.</i></span></span></blockquote>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lacking this perfect formula (and not in the habit of frequenting liquor stores, anyway), I skeptically grab a few items that
look like they might fit a female human and then contemplate my dash to the
dressing room…and suddenly realize that I can’t remember where the dressing rooms
are. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blankety blank. I should’ve checked before my arms were loaded with
lacy unmentionables.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">From between a rack of hideous negligees and cute pajama pants, I
peek out and look for the sign. There it is, just to the right. Awesome. Yes!
Except…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">…under the sign, between me and the dressing room, is the Designated
Waiting Area for Patient Husbands. Two men are sitting there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, expletive. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I grab several more things off the rack next to me – every possible style in four different sizes - just so
the pile of garments is high enough that the men won’t see my face and recognize me from school, from work, or, God forbid, <i>from church</i>, and double-time
it past them and duck into the hallway. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I survive the dressing room. A few things make the cut, I make the
purchase, and make my way out to the car. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I realize that the herbal relaxant I took earlier was probably a really good idea.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Shopping online would have been a better one, though. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-87281811470074640472013-05-11T00:09:00.000-08:002013-05-11T00:09:40.240-08:00on the same side<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I love avocados. They're expensive here, often a few dollars each just for one good organic one - so we don't get them very often. But maybe the real reason we don't get them very often is that Vince thinks they're disgusting, slimy green vegetables that sneak into otherwise perfectly good sandwiches and tacos, rendering them completely inedible. Something like that.<br />
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<br />
So, in our <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/05/the-growing-season.html" target="_blank">grand gardening experiment,</a> he was not real impressed when he saw this little guy. The conversation went like this:<br />
<br />
Vin: You're growing an avocado plant?<br />
Me: Um...yes.<br />
Vin: This is Alaska.<br />
Me: I know. I'm kinda from here.<br />
Vin: It won't grow in Alaska.<br />
Me: It's okay, we're growing it inside. It's science, see?<br />
Vin: You realize that avocados grow on <i>trees</i>, don't you?<br />
Me: Mm-hmm. I'll trim it...and it will be shrubby.<br />
Vin: And it will grow avocados in the house?<br />
Me: In five to seven years, maybe.<br />
Vin: You're growing...an avocado tree...in our house, for at least five years?<br />
Me: Um...(looks at other small avocado starts that he hasn't noticed yet) Actually...three of them.<br />
<br />
Imagine me flashing my most adorable and winning smile. See?<br />
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Only one of them is growing so far - it took weeks (maybe a couple of months?) to get roots and a shoot, so we're patient with these other two, also.<br />
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Well, I am patient. The kids are patient. Vince is patient...with me.<br />
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We tease each other, but really, we are on the same side. I give him a hard time about eating pig guts (otherwise known as chorizo) and we're even.<br />
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Teasing each other is okay when the trust level is high. Ours is high...it has been low before, <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2011/10/fourteen.html" target="_blank">it bottomed out at one point</a>, but half our marriage ago we learned to be on the same side. We're trying to teach our kids the same thing.<br />
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They are learning that trust is something that has to be earned, and once lost, it has emptied their tank of credence. It takes many deposits of goodness, sensitivity, and believing the best in each other to earn it back. It takes a long time to refill the tank, and there's no teasing in the meantime. In the mean...time.<br />
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It's been a year (or two, or more) of battles, from within and without. We're learning to fight the good fight with many and various special needs and special circumstances, and our family is learning that we have to be a team in ways we've never had to before.<br />
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Conflicts come up with our kids. Between our kids, between us and the kids, and this is something we've been trying to teach them: we are on the same side. We're for them. We're not fighting them. They're not (really) fighting each other.<br />
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We're moving from this mindset of being<i> in trouble </i>to being corrected <i>in love,</i> and we both need to remember it. Both sides. Because we're really on the same side.<br />
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Mom and Dad are on their side. We're trying. And sometimes, despite that, we still have some convincing to do:<br />
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<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Chamberlain: Look at the bug! Dis is his bottom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Me: We don’t talk about bottoms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Cham: We only talk about bottoms in the baffwoom?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Me: Yep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Cham: An’ we don’t talk about bottoms when we’re not in the baffwoom?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Me: Right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Cham: Not even about bugs bottoms?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Me: (laughing hysterically)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Cham: Hey! Stop waffin’ at me!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Me: I’m trying! (stifled laughter, turning into squeaks)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Cham, running off to closet: Now you’re <i>fake</i> waffin' at me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;">Me: I’m sorry. (snort, cough) Come here and give me kisses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: JasmineUPC;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cham, shaking head: You’re still waffing at me.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSE95RsxxeXGngWZ9EkQe1ZKosJ4xcQOAHWNeu9wtzW8PPkmHM6z4fnIrSAWruwXe9dgwYhBu1DsSSJaAO9U23U1T6YhyTtdZqzK2jkLEMFH7OGTGM8UuA1lQ6rhC0SqHQNBahqqNjJA/s1600/IMG_3609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSE95RsxxeXGngWZ9EkQe1ZKosJ4xcQOAHWNeu9wtzW8PPkmHM6z4fnIrSAWruwXe9dgwYhBu1DsSSJaAO9U23U1T6YhyTtdZqzK2jkLEMFH7OGTGM8UuA1lQ6rhC0SqHQNBahqqNjJA/s320/IMG_3609.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We're trying to remember that a gentle correction brings a gentle response, so they will learn that a gentle answer brings a gentle correction. Because we're not mad. Because they're not perfect, and we know that, and we're all learning. Together. On the same side.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The sun went down on a brilliant victory for the Confederates. Yet the night brought disaster for them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Eager to find out what the Federals were doing, General Jackson rode out towards their lines in the gathering darkness...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"The danger is all over," he said carelessly. "The enemy is routed. Go back and tell Hill to press right on."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Soon after giving this order, Jackson himself turned, and rode back with his staff at a quick trot. But in the dim light his men mistook the little party for a company of Federals charging, and they fired. Many of his officers were killed, Jackson himself was sorely wounded and fell from his horse into the arms of one of his officers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"General," asked someone anxiously, "are you much hurt?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"I think I am," replied Jackson. "And all my wounds are from my own men," he added sadly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As tenderly as might be he was carried to the rear, and all that could be done was done. But Stonewall Jackson had fought his last victorious fight. Eight days later the Conqueror of all men laid His hand upon him, and he passed to the land of perfect peace.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">- H. E. Marshall, <i>This Country of Ours</i></span><br />
<br />
He's been talking to me about this a lot lately.<br />
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I wrote <a href="http://www.hiphomeschoolmoms.com/2013/05/look-both-ways-hip-homeschool-hop-featured-blogger-5713/" target="_blank">a piece recently for another site</a> (scroll past all the linky icons), and it was supposed to be sort of short...er...but it didn't turn out that way, because He's been talking to me about this for a while. Apparently He had a lot to say, and He's still talking. It's an important message and I'd love for you to read it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy-yJ_QC86Y-_PCJE-DKS0VlsZUpPJrcN9aN-cHgmiGuMphZfS-8XAX33Bl06hXgxM0o_RUV0tQ5WiSLzjq659UbbmMf7ZB2qt1FdClQHvNMrelgVydGwS7MmL2PeE8v4X2JuQ-TPYS-w/s1600/IMG_3848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy-yJ_QC86Y-_PCJE-DKS0VlsZUpPJrcN9aN-cHgmiGuMphZfS-8XAX33Bl06hXgxM0o_RUV0tQ5WiSLzjq659UbbmMf7ZB2qt1FdClQHvNMrelgVydGwS7MmL2PeE8v4X2JuQ-TPYS-w/s320/IMG_3848.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The friendly-fire among the family, among the church, among the troops, is born of fear and self-defense. Confusion, insecurity, and panic, and our deepest wounds have been from our own men. But what if our aim was truer because our vision was clear, and we realized that we were on the same side?<br />
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We would stop letting fear have its heyday with us.<br />
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We would choose to believe the best in each other.<br />
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We would trust that He made us for a special purpose with all of our special needs (because <b>we are all special needs</b>) and we would realize that we don't need to fit into either the ideals or the insecurities of someone else. We don't even need to try, and we don't need to apologize for not trying, either.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Isaiah+40%3A11&version=NIV" target="_blank">He gently leads those who are with young...</a></i><br />
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We would trust that He knows what He's gotten us into.<br />
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He's on our side, too, you know. He's for us. He's not mad, because we're not perfect, and He knows that. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuHt1EM21PggSFcu6bdGucq5xVFtQvwmwnPzhGmHwUTeKsjnKPAH0j0XkZL6jwfFpYNRNqrXx3XgUt_1dIOg4-zKeGlFVySsBShf8imlTkquCe9EnEODuMe_xoNwEH4w_8uPQtYFINFi8/s1600/IMG_4145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuHt1EM21PggSFcu6bdGucq5xVFtQvwmwnPzhGmHwUTeKsjnKPAH0j0XkZL6jwfFpYNRNqrXx3XgUt_1dIOg4-zKeGlFVySsBShf8imlTkquCe9EnEODuMe_xoNwEH4w_8uPQtYFINFi8/s320/IMG_4145.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-31688706366252339612013-05-01T00:20:00.000-08:002013-05-01T11:22:34.524-08:00the growing season<span style="font-family: inherit;">Forty-two degrees. For some reason, this same temperature feels about thirty degrees warmer in spring than it does in fall. The forty-two degrees that made us shiver and crave hot cocoa on a chilly day in
August actually makes us leave our coats behind and go picnicking in April. A little
perspective will do that for you.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicEQ636a0sgQuepD-iGf9Hg_qPv7iIFOTglMn43Ytcd26s1lVnhaGyX3g_aqqVYFAaf-zPzKYsXVx5gKPp8sJEDX_akdtk6REG4kg5xlgX9KEONXsjslfR6TKLLGq0qAukP9X_QeG9LbA/s1600/IMG_4087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicEQ636a0sgQuepD-iGf9Hg_qPv7iIFOTglMn43Ytcd26s1lVnhaGyX3g_aqqVYFAaf-zPzKYsXVx5gKPp8sJEDX_akdtk6REG4kg5xlgX9KEONXsjslfR6TKLLGq0qAukP9X_QeG9LbA/s320/IMG_4087.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Snow is melting and puddles are filling. We splash and stir and kick snow into the dry spots to make it melt faster. The trees are just barely starting to bud at our house, and only the faintest bit of green is showing.</span><br />
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I think this is lichen. Does that even count?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSNpZsKM1Xj4pllJDzaVQGPwVOdacSJqhqvVMuWlVmy-vwwhFVjCYbG_LG6E5xmg-jrtD9b8BGca2xvQI_cbpXt8KwgaS-jZXv-k63ASPiB8IPopKiJZhvDKXzSlCPxbF5N7H5q16b5Q/s1600/IMG_4033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSNpZsKM1Xj4pllJDzaVQGPwVOdacSJqhqvVMuWlVmy-vwwhFVjCYbG_LG6E5xmg-jrtD9b8BGca2xvQI_cbpXt8KwgaS-jZXv-k63ASPiB8IPopKiJZhvDKXzSlCPxbF5N7H5q16b5Q/s320/IMG_4033.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We are impatient for budding, sprouting things, so we have a mini garden that has taken over our dining room and kitchen for the last couple of months. Our growing season
is short; we have just a few months of great daylight to cultivate
something that will be worth harvesting in the fall before the snow flies
again. </span><br />
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It started off looking fairly simple, using a little greenhouse method. Having a greenhouse on top of your dining room table is not terribly convenient, but...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUpq81Kn2VRnuryZRrsNr5BcFlKFvfGamkMhJVHXkd23puQQhKOC5H_n_qDCLfJQg-RJlB0ycRWAo_92VwHfVnqsT8iwEgiG2PSubF4Z0L1JKTNmYOfVTGEnNitCKwvD62WPq12QbHf-c/s1600/IMG_3679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUpq81Kn2VRnuryZRrsNr5BcFlKFvfGamkMhJVHXkd23puQQhKOC5H_n_qDCLfJQg-RJlB0ycRWAo_92VwHfVnqsT8iwEgiG2PSubF4Z0L1JKTNmYOfVTGEnNitCKwvD62WPq12QbHf-c/s320/IMG_3679.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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...we worked around it. Here, Frodo is atop some broccoli seedlings, overseeing drills between the allied forces of Lord of the Rings and Star Wars. </div>
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We ate meals around it. (all of us - and no, Gus is not allowed there, but he is sooo handsome!)</div>
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We graduated to seedling pots. Our greenhouse experiment resulted in mostly moldy seedlings, so now we have celery, leeks (well, <i>a</i> leek), bok choy, romaine lettuce, green onions, and garlic...and a tiny broccoli that is not doing much.<br />
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We've had pretty good success with the <a href="http://pinterest.com/baruchslullaby/garden/" target="_blank">growing-from-kitchen-scraps technique</a> that you've probably seen all over facebook and pinterest. Put the saved cutting in water, and let it sit for days or weeks until you feel like putting it in dirt. Perfect.<br />
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It has worked for us pretty well, with the exception of one little celery plant that I had just repotted. I put it in the most convenient sunny spot available - which unfortunately happened to be near where Afton was sitting - and I told Afton not to trip over it. He said he wouldn't and then immediately forgot, knocking it over...and the poor little celery never recovered.</div>
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Afton's fine, though. As his shirt says, he does all his own stunts.<br />
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The kids are growing and thriving (and yes, pruning), too. We start term 3 of our school year this week, and I'm amazed at how we have all adjusted to new schedules, new routines, and new responsibilities. There's so much...new.<br />
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And it's becoming not quite so new, and that is wonderful.<br />
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Lots of people ask how school is going for Andrey and Reagan. They are the same age as Afton, but enrolled in kindergarten (he is in first grade), and for the record, we haven't really been doing "school" with them on a scheduled basis (gasp!). Many circles (my own included) recommended this approach for kindergarten anyway. Too much forced academic school at early ages often backfires.<br />
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The last eight months have been about learning all of those new routines, limits, boundaries, etc. Teaching them math and handwriting has not been a huge priority when we have to first teach them that they <i>are </i>safe, and teach them to <i>be </i>safe.<br />
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They are learning letters, colors, and English. Table manners and hygiene. How to get in and out of the Suburban, and how to buckle a seatbelt. They're learning that these mommy and daddy people are neither servants nor tyrants - they are safe but not spoiled, and this is often confusing, frustrating, and unfamiliar middle ground to both of them.<br />
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This term, though, I finally have handwriting and math scheduled. We'll see how it goes. Even with all of the writing, coloring, drawing, and scribbling going on here, they both still need to learn to hold a pencil correctly. Partly it's motor skills, partly it's a variety of diagnoses, and partly it's that one child in particular likes to do things the wrong way on purpose because he thinks he will command my attention longer that way. <br />
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We are impatient for growth, for budding. The other day, I was walking around the driveway with the little girls, kicking snow and crunching ice (this is good motor skills, and all sorts of therapy for getting aggression out, for all of us) and Cham kept asking to hold my hand. We held hands and let go several times as we found new piles of snow to stomp and kick, and each time she came back and wanted to hold my hand again. So we walked and crunched and kicked together, all over the yard, all over the driveway, and suddenly there was another little hand reaching out to me - and Reagan said, "Mama? Hand?"<br />
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She has never asked me to hold her hand before, unless she needed help getting up or down from somewhere. Maybe she was just copying Chamberlain. Maybe her hands were cold.<br />
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Maybe it was just lichen...but it was green. It looked like growth to me.<br />
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<b>The growing season is short,</b> and we have years of lost time to make up for. He is in the business of restoring what the locusts have stolen, and we are counting on that to happen in a big way.</div>
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The growing season is short, so when it comes to what is most important for each of our kids to be learning, we don't want to miss <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/10/to-see-forest-for-trees.html" target="_blank">the forest for the trees</a>. Different kids need different lessons, and while one is reading Longfellow and studying geometry and unlearning bad habits, another is reading Mom's tone and studying boundaries and...well, also unlearning bad habits.<br />
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The growing season is short...we have just enough great daylight to get our hands dirty, to cultivate, to prepare for the harvest later. The days when our dining room table takes on a more dignified state will be here soon enough.<br />
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<br />sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-87343948895629735852013-04-20T00:08:00.001-08:002013-06-06T00:53:42.572-08:00the underwear strikes back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hello, <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/07/oh-saturday.html" target="_blank">Saturday</a>. We meet again.<br />
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Kids are doing chores, I'm doing oatmeal. We're late. It leisurely turns into brunch and we usually finish breakfast by lunchtime, and this happens almost every week. It's okay. This is our catch up day, our finish-the-laundry day, our listen-to-music-and-read-Oliver-Twist-and-play-with-seeds-in-the-dirt day.<br />
<br />
I'm chopping apples to stir into oatmeal and the girls are ready, like always, waiting at the table. The boys, like always, are still raising a ruckus in their room, finishing their chores and getting ready to vacuum. Except for the last few minutes it's been...quiet. Strange. That should've been the tip off.<br />
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The stillness is suddenly broken by music blaring from upstairs, from the boys room, as loud as the stereo will go. I immediately recognize it - it's the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OVABAKxH2d0" target="_blank">Imperial Death March </a> from Star Wars (you know it, too, but I strongly suggest you go ahead and click the link to experience the full effect of this).<br />
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I look up and...there is Afton, solemnly marching towards us, past us, on his way to the laundry room, with his right arm fully extended out in front of him. Dangling from two pinched fingers of the extended limb, so as to to keep the offending article as far away from the rest of his body as possible, is a pair of dirty underwear.<br />
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I realize that the music was for my benefit. It's kind of fun to live with a soundtrack.<br />
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The rest of the day putters through with chores and reading and a late lunch that nudges into naptime. I answer a million questions during the day and realize that, oh yes - I also have a three-year-old in full bloom.<br />
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"What is God's wast name?"<br />
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"What? I dunno. I don't think He has a last name."<br />
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"He <i>doesn't</i>?!" Incredulous disbelief. "Does <i>Jesus </i>have a wast name?"<br />
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"I don't think so." I consider whether or not I could get away with saying "Josephson" and then decide not to.<br />
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"He probwy knows. I fink I know His wast name."<br />
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"Oh really? What?"<br />
<br />
"Pattycake."<br />
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All kinds of questions. A lot of them lately involve underwear, as this is a new development in our lives. Our sweet piano teacher - and anyone else who will listen - gets an earful pretty often about potty charts and new underwear and how many squares of toilet paper you're supposed to use. Also, I undergo regular interrogation about this business of mommies and daddies not having to wear jammies, footie or otherwise, at bedtime like kids do. After six kids I reserve the right to deflect any question I don't want to deal with at this time. Like why baby boys have sticky-outy parts and baby girls are...you know, normal. Ay caramba.<br />
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We roll through naptime, quiet time, and Vin comes home. Our weekend commences and we are so excited because it's going to be four! days! long! and we finish dinner with the kids and do bedtime and get ready for our <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/03/an-interruption-in-our-regularly.html" target="_blank">weekly movie date</a>.<br />
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It's a fairly lame movie, but the food is good and the company is excellent. The kids are all asleep and we're two-thirds of the way through the movie, and suddenly -<br />
<br />
Darth Vader's presence is announced by a full orchestra and approximately eight squadrons of Storm Troopers.<br />
<br />
The Imperial Death March is blaring from the boys room. And it's midnight.<br />
<br />
One boy is screaming, another boy is thinking about screaming, and another boy is sleeping through the entire Imperial Troop invasion, softly snoring...just like he did <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2008/10/its-5amdo-you-know-where-your-roof-is.html" target="_blank">when the tree fell on our house</a>. At least some things are predictable.<br />
<br />
We fumble in the dark for the volume button, for the off button, for the electrical plug, whatever, and finally, there is quiet. We calm down all screaming and potential screaming. The cats, those lazy feline rubberneckers, wander in to see what all the fuss is about. We discover that while setting the soundtrack for the Great Imperial Underwear March, someone accidentally set the timer to go off again at midnight.<br />
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After pushing every button on the stereo in a totally random fashion, we somehow manage to un-set the timer to resume bedtime, resume sleep, and resume our lame-but-almost-over movie. We leave the room and a whuffly snore erupts from the bottom bunk. Still oblivious.<br />
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Strong, the force is with him. Question him tomorrow...we will.<br />
<br />sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-7095100603178824232013-04-13T21:59:00.000-08:002013-04-14T00:33:49.124-08:00testing, testing, uno-dos-tres<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #333333;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #333333;">The woodstove was glowing, smoke drifting slightly west from our chimney, and the snow was piling up almost as fast as the books on my to-read list. </span><span style="color: #333333;">We were almost totally thawed last week until Saturday, when it started snowing and didn't stop until a few days ago. People called it Merry Springmas. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">...WINTER WEATHER ADVISORY FOR SNOW REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL NOON</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">AKDT TUESDAY...</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">* LOCATION...MATANUSKA VALLEY.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">* SNOW...ADDITIONAL SNOW ACCUMULATION 3 TO 7 INCHES THROUGH NOON</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">ON TUESDAY.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">* TIMING...SNOW WILL INCREASE THIS EVENING INTO THE EARLY</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">OVERNIGHT. SIGNIFICANT SNOW ACCUMULATIONS WILL PERSIST THROUGH</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">TUESDAY MORNING. MINOR ADDITIONAL ACCUMULATIONS OF SNOW ARE</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;">POSSIBLE THROUGH TUESDAY NIGHT.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This came after the last advisory of 8-14 inches, which came after the alert from Saturday that I can't remember the details of. The total at our house was 17 inches...less than some, more than others.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our cats curled up together like quotation marks. The grill wore a chef's hat. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The kids practiced their theatrical skills and tried to convince each other they were waist deep</span></span><br />
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or more<br />
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and required assistance<br />
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<br />
before they had to swim to safety.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">Just a few days before, the streets were dry. Mattie and Iree had testing and the rest of us had time to kill while we waited for them to finish. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftGx9SgRuLVQ9EpBg0znZzGVRd6Qd_YXV7QDn2PCGAtulDrrfEQIWpeBxHUX4sQtbMyA9Ba9nNe74B4LKkQWBnCsYhFrBlptFm3MYAks0XcJ3IH0wQE_tOYkpmU58_g-l9mqYYYURBVo/s1600/IMG_3917.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftGx9SgRuLVQ9EpBg0znZzGVRd6Qd_YXV7QDn2PCGAtulDrrfEQIWpeBxHUX4sQtbMyA9Ba9nNe74B4LKkQWBnCsYhFrBlptFm3MYAks0XcJ3IH0wQE_tOYkpmU58_g-l9mqYYYURBVo/s320/IMG_3917.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> We threw snowballs at each other,</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4rV768UEgGQhpYTK8KOmjj_-PLJITeE3cIJlzMaNfdLEO4Haw0aGPdL3ZGDMIDoLKvRbtFxcC67MuC40ke-QVXzF3SnGsDrU_tffRZcbjH3aDFwYYIzvjv3VOZDeg2RJS7Tdkj0lhh0/s1600/IMG_3918.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4rV768UEgGQhpYTK8KOmjj_-PLJITeE3cIJlzMaNfdLEO4Haw0aGPdL3ZGDMIDoLKvRbtFxcC67MuC40ke-QVXzF3SnGsDrU_tffRZcbjH3aDFwYYIzvjv3VOZDeg2RJS7Tdkj0lhh0/s320/IMG_3918.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> raised a ruckus at the library, </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">stomped in puddles...</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygGVnT9KTH6f0Xu4uE7CyGuJ6fQWwRJubMDqEg1UmLU1CKmJjaQKcFJoj3l6m9XoHXQQHsLKQAhn2O7I4X-Wx3kXL3Bhzp6ADvPkMTKMR_KwNMPwaOt1EjDTZB7HAdVbO8WaWWCSWB1g/s1600/IMG_3938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygGVnT9KTH6f0Xu4uE7CyGuJ6fQWwRJubMDqEg1UmLU1CKmJjaQKcFJoj3l6m9XoHXQQHsLKQAhn2O7I4X-Wx3kXL3Bhzp6ADvPkMTKMR_KwNMPwaOt1EjDTZB7HAdVbO8WaWWCSWB1g/s320/IMG_3938.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span><span style="text-align: center;">fell in puddles...</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9iw8oGdaN57tf32GadL7cVUW0jp3evY6WBTz6mDIlDRcoHVyl87xEWNgJrx5jpxrcPhreGIDzxrGjr6qOmpyy1Yk-TuFlwTXXs_FwwRrcIJ6xtyj-fuwddCh5k9AHKiTi-C6fJzdpRBg/s1600/IMG_3940.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9iw8oGdaN57tf32GadL7cVUW0jp3evY6WBTz6mDIlDRcoHVyl87xEWNgJrx5jpxrcPhreGIDzxrGjr6qOmpyy1Yk-TuFlwTXXs_FwwRrcIJ6xtyj-fuwddCh5k9AHKiTi-C6fJzdpRBg/s320/IMG_3940.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">...and woke up at 7 am for three days straight and lived to tell about it. Miracles do happen. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6PhmGdjEtCLq-lrglZ0T_z6ak0tFLzgOFDq0EORHMF2-P258VcD7kQrGfcMPUdaYBTEHxuJ4eucT1o0EoTTKupXOuiCExegS3mQI6HwtcGZTclGIzKo9AQ4MrWnuAnedLLpswZrbxx00/s1600/IMG_3936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6PhmGdjEtCLq-lrglZ0T_z6ak0tFLzgOFDq0EORHMF2-P258VcD7kQrGfcMPUdaYBTEHxuJ4eucT1o0EoTTKupXOuiCExegS3mQI6HwtcGZTclGIzKo9AQ4MrWnuAnedLLpswZrbxx00/s320/IMG_3936.JPG" width="285" /></a></div>
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We drank a lot of coffee. At the post-testing celebratory lunch with Grandpa at Sophia's Cafe, I discovered...Greek coffee.<br />
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"Greek coffee?" I asked the waitress. "What makes it Greek?"<br />
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"Well...I've heard people say that it's like 16 cups of coffee in one cup."<br />
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"I'll take one of those."<br />
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I just like watching my dad's eyebrows go up.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAc5mU_lBCWFB7PRxc5dvDayE82Ud1r7F801rMu6J2waBm7XESGhyIXffJYcrvqmG40YENpi4MogcwjW9979X6jO_xHraJ1mx1nnFhhoZmYCioSpCcnb6Nj0x1IA7IHzWuVjv8hSkZ_NQ/s1600/IMG_3925.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAc5mU_lBCWFB7PRxc5dvDayE82Ud1r7F801rMu6J2waBm7XESGhyIXffJYcrvqmG40YENpi4MogcwjW9979X6jO_xHraJ1mx1nnFhhoZmYCioSpCcnb6Nj0x1IA7IHzWuVjv8hSkZ_NQ/s320/IMG_3925.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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This week, as the snow is re-melting, falling off the trees like glacial calving <span style="font-family: inherit;">when the sun hits it, we've had more testing of a different sort. We had an appointment on Monday that was awesome (yay!) except that in spite of my warnings, our child with the most attachment issues was doted on for a 30-minute gig and we've been reaping the consequences ever since. For example: if a child acts like he's...<i>limping</i>...right after he's has his blood drawn, you can bet he is practicing his, ah, theatrical skills, also. Please. And while that is kind of funny, everything else we've been dealing with post-fawning-appointment has not been. We've been swimming for safety all week.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">{Unless you are the parent, gushing over a child with attachment issues is a <b>huge no-no</b>, and those who do it are not the ones who have to deal with the aftermath later. <i>Egad, Holmes!</i>}</span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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We are learning to assert boundaries with people in the community and trying really hard to teach those who need to understand what it is that we are dealing with. We have had to be taught, too, and we are still learning so much. Usually it's wonderful, but this time it wasn't, and we will start again when this blows over.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8DJTg6yducPUBy5U5dKRKcsAoVab1kUA6cwG8-VnlN33kLVf5mSmov3HyR2WRW_Zzs-XXFGGAx3fUIlJP7L_VF1703CJAuHO4jJYGWbHs4ljPpytOVyRTtRsRMyrR3YBLS-PNhk33hE/s1600/IMG_3930.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8DJTg6yducPUBy5U5dKRKcsAoVab1kUA6cwG8-VnlN33kLVf5mSmov3HyR2WRW_Zzs-XXFGGAx3fUIlJP7L_VF1703CJAuHO4jJYGWbHs4ljPpytOVyRTtRsRMyrR3YBLS-PNhk33hE/s320/IMG_3930.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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We did learn some exciting news though. Eight months home, and Reagan has gained 6 1/2 pounds. Andrey has grown almost 2 1/2 inches.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ssIZXt21G-y9K7NT1Ci0lXOKY6RQDWEHSATLQisa87mvZfSj6jIgkHduezSd2na5Cq40zhTgT2_XyIAiAAO_efOFWlGa2TSSFaLEu8hb_XgvhnVACE0EK-E7LlH-J_a-AEO2IwOAX3Y/s1600/IMG_3782.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ssIZXt21G-y9K7NT1Ci0lXOKY6RQDWEHSATLQisa87mvZfSj6jIgkHduezSd2na5Cq40zhTgT2_XyIAiAAO_efOFWlGa2TSSFaLEu8hb_XgvhnVACE0EK-E7LlH-J_a-AEO2IwOAX3Y/s320/IMG_3782.JPG" width="235" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoCoNWtJZxj3v7kblVu2IfAaFW7U2lX9Ci5KxNvzxMfPQ9RXJasRZoEt3Jbw21MlJwSL0W-FLZcGrJPB7X5h7DWxca_3Ucws1e_5vORVthgIAX2FX_SrMHJ21Nivp1tEtJE-HnStYhL1A/s1600/IMG_3781.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoCoNWtJZxj3v7kblVu2IfAaFW7U2lX9Ci5KxNvzxMfPQ9RXJasRZoEt3Jbw21MlJwSL0W-FLZcGrJPB7X5h7DWxca_3Ucws1e_5vORVthgIAX2FX_SrMHJ21Nivp1tEtJE-HnStYhL1A/s320/IMG_3781.JPG" width="239" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The fact that Reagan has gained so much weight is particularly notable since she lost almost a pound of hair when we cut it a few weeks ago. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But the real miracle is that she still has both ears and no injuries, because she is quite a...shall we say, mover and shaker? and jerked this way and that way, wings flapping, the entire time. It didn't help that this lady showed up at the back door, either.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBn_ztXM_7nMiRrETEJeXPEiTCDvV5eHTZugLfYYBLyVbr6U2h-oNGI3KsLorpO6n0Xj-u36bP_gielnKwR7bC7vW9-iGtKrvqfa9h9ORb9MK5Fwa9FVHD6k_o5IX2_k0EWGZM9peU9k/s1600/IMG_3794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBn_ztXM_7nMiRrETEJeXPEiTCDvV5eHTZugLfYYBLyVbr6U2h-oNGI3KsLorpO6n0Xj-u36bP_gielnKwR7bC7vW9-iGtKrvqfa9h9ORb9MK5Fwa9FVHD6k_o5IX2_k0EWGZM9peU9k/s320/IMG_3794.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQtNw1_Tue7H74RDp20inQXDxOUj69lHTHxd0jOWSPManHQUKESJpVpxU4IX7vOlh98RNGDu11eFojkh6wh_w4503EjAB732ZmKwRSQw5EUgzRSlMuubSZ8B4NbCdRl81R40rjyr7xgk/s1600/IMG_3795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQtNw1_Tue7H74RDp20inQXDxOUj69lHTHxd0jOWSPManHQUKESJpVpxU4IX7vOlh98RNGDu11eFojkh6wh_w4503EjAB732ZmKwRSQw5EUgzRSlMuubSZ8B4NbCdRl81R40rjyr7xgk/s320/IMG_3795.JPG" width="239" /></a><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">Reagan was flapping like she'd had the Greek coffee. I snipped some quick layers and put away the scissors for everyone's safety.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGEZfwrwf6HvS6su7j39SB7qWeO7fX1OyS3TTiwa160BMBvjSWzsOPhNegKnRxXvuaFvoPvqzqj7ANuNjY68uF0sd5g5NWo_MZlsTpki50uOEYXh8RZ2bkUoaQHZkTFeJjDWW-uvq8IPM/s1600/IMG_3812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGEZfwrwf6HvS6su7j39SB7qWeO7fX1OyS3TTiwa160BMBvjSWzsOPhNegKnRxXvuaFvoPvqzqj7ANuNjY68uF0sd5g5NWo_MZlsTpki50uOEYXh8RZ2bkUoaQHZkTFeJjDWW-uvq8IPM/s320/IMG_3812.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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It's Saturday as I write this and homemade macaroni and cheese is in the oven for our <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/03/an-interruption-in-our-regularly.html">almost-sacred movie night.</a> The superfluous testing has eased up over the last day or two and this is the first day I haven't had to swim for shore all week. Which is wonderful, because I hate swimming. I'm convinced we weren't meant to do it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We were meant to walk on water.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAABAmZrwAq8bJQO5BYEvPMiIFvEgkJyEmrZJdoz2OUpnhkhJKx7eiOJPAYmtHx9W73F-8VKtoRObyHM3s43RjfV9qAOvXCRAGC_oJlJAA0VrJj7XWbKKJ5X8H0rJpOQGwwFVQIMM1TJ4/s1600/IMG_3942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAABAmZrwAq8bJQO5BYEvPMiIFvEgkJyEmrZJdoz2OUpnhkhJKx7eiOJPAYmtHx9W73F-8VKtoRObyHM3s43RjfV9qAOvXCRAGC_oJlJAA0VrJj7XWbKKJ5X8H0rJpOQGwwFVQIMM1TJ4/s320/IMG_3942.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-49558768888833015632013-04-02T22:52:00.000-08:002013-04-02T23:52:21.224-08:00us, concentrate<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpn0ZLIKC_df8J7vrUUgPXm1MwsGnXtYF7_L_Inu1OxOiPG3EPOI5F270Bf9xJN7Jcxzpq2le2PeEKdEy1TUuGaWsHfwFlFg0_zYGAWUACXuinZGCmoMAgDLowBIaJO764SICMTzpKIo/s1600/IMG_3879.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpn0ZLIKC_df8J7vrUUgPXm1MwsGnXtYF7_L_Inu1OxOiPG3EPOI5F270Bf9xJN7Jcxzpq2le2PeEKdEy1TUuGaWsHfwFlFg0_zYGAWUACXuinZGCmoMAgDLowBIaJO764SICMTzpKIo/s320/IMG_3879.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is the first year in a while that we dyed eggs for Easter. I
have either forgotten to buy eggs, boil eggs, or buy dye for the last several
years, and we’ve suffered through the holiday by merely binging on peanut
butter and chocolate eggs for breakfast. (sigh) My beautiful grandma is in her
eighties, and she told me the other night that she had dyed eggs every Easter
until just a few years ago, all by herself, just because she loves to. When I
grow up I hope to be like her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTiqdP4caJxXcGDEs-prFh2150058CJ8f3g6Wq68Q8ZRa23DEJCBUO4A6xORUZ6KXMRVrh_qSo2XkzWsz-0-MBqMgqy7NqvO7dk1ZtYmndV-jG1zUZallK-zgJRfDO_k3ZTEiQhjtvZs/s1600/IMG_3852.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTiqdP4caJxXcGDEs-prFh2150058CJ8f3g6Wq68Q8ZRa23DEJCBUO4A6xORUZ6KXMRVrh_qSo2XkzWsz-0-MBqMgqy7NqvO7dk1ZtYmndV-jG1zUZallK-zgJRfDO_k3ZTEiQhjtvZs/s320/IMG_3852.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We went au naturel this time and had bowls of eggs all over the counter soaking in hot water and vinegar mixed with coffee grounds, red cabbage, tomato paste, crushed blueberries, beets, turmeric, turmeric with paprika, turmeric with tea. Lots of turmeric. White eggs go in, colored eggs come out. That’s the plan.</span><br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">We found that some colors dye quicker. Turmeric, for example, is so
effective that it will not only dye eggs, but also the surrounding counter and
anything else it touches, and beets will dye your fingers fuchsia the moment
you start to peel them. Nice.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LCGR44ih1o9KuHZjtZDmBhCtidRj6Otc-FIh9jkn1LP_2ylLdLUHANED1zTs2ZKbbZZOUh-8s-BUedvJoNB5E29GN2y5i_9WPxS2kng1D6DmG7JU5HKiSpen_T24pxF5xo_MMrtYKPs/s1600/IMG_3863.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LCGR44ih1o9KuHZjtZDmBhCtidRj6Otc-FIh9jkn1LP_2ylLdLUHANED1zTs2ZKbbZZOUh-8s-BUedvJoNB5E29GN2y5i_9WPxS2kng1D6DmG7JU5HKiSpen_T24pxF5xo_MMrtYKPs/s320/IMG_3863.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Others take a long time to soak in and make a change. And as they
dry, sometimes the color changes. They go in white, come out red,and change to
green as they oxidize…or come out light blue, and darken to a beautiful
turquoise.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKWg682HUXawAuTpviF8PM9e7Nmsfc859pJRa7IN3yWDCy3k4UnaMXsXmUnmTJfnu0EUP30GSG9cMnmPjJmnv1kdLqWh-W-7ubFgdLtUufvy8HtMfuZr5Y4I6tEdTpkytbcvRDEMEOCu8/s1600/IMG_3872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKWg682HUXawAuTpviF8PM9e7Nmsfc859pJRa7IN3yWDCy3k4UnaMXsXmUnmTJfnu0EUP30GSG9cMnmPjJmnv1kdLqWh-W-7ubFgdLtUufvy8HtMfuZr5Y4I6tEdTpkytbcvRDEMEOCu8/s320/IMG_3872.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Some of the eggs we soaked in one color and re-soaked in another.
The colors are deep and the patterns are intricate, unknown galaxies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0vGFG5ChqUsiloceOjRWH6AGKx7ysCjZHM5ORqzhSjvxkNwuaUolLUH0XDYG-wD6bJTykiIQatjriXj6Kh57fwTYNu3oBMpq5FBGtEfyuM2ykIolVOlvd_seR705Ze5JN-9kd_KaQdeg/s1600/IMG_3874.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0vGFG5ChqUsiloceOjRWH6AGKx7ysCjZHM5ORqzhSjvxkNwuaUolLUH0XDYG-wD6bJTykiIQatjriXj6Kh57fwTYNu3oBMpq5FBGtEfyuM2ykIolVOlvd_seR705Ze5JN-9kd_KaQdeg/s320/IMG_3874.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And some just don’t change at all. Apparently tomato paste won’t
dye diddly, and the eggs come out for a rinse, unchanged after hours except for
a nasty film that is scrubbed off, only to take another bath in a different
color.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But usually, the egg goes in and comes out changed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We do, too. We dye, or die, often. How many times do you feel like
you’ve been buried over the past year?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We go through something that changes us, and walk through pain that
alters our perspective. We experience something huge – for better or worse –
and are washed into something that doesn’t change who we are, but how we look
at things. Our essence and identity are still the same – the egg is still an
egg – but we know ourselves better because of it.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU5ERitUwc43ATAFJSlVsLcRoXS60-9s7_HNPuZZVOpCMgSLOTApnuty4FK3_grHmPmg3lBczL-BOgXnQ5LC1dKqoy88sjszdLxTmFygnNIielW72a5Te-pd2kJj7vbDx6s1VrzobU7k8/s1600/IMG_3875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU5ERitUwc43ATAFJSlVsLcRoXS60-9s7_HNPuZZVOpCMgSLOTApnuty4FK3_grHmPmg3lBczL-BOgXnQ5LC1dKqoy88sjszdLxTmFygnNIielW72a5Te-pd2kJj7vbDx6s1VrzobU7k8/s320/IMG_3875.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes the change is fast, and other times it is a slow process
as we heal and make sense of things. Sometimes we go through a series of
dunkings that leave us wishing we could hold someone else under the water for a
change, just long enough to make </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">them</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> uncomfortable (No? Maybe it’s just
me). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0eAmydobPWc79oYiiyfeiNf1B6kSlofd5HIyNswIgmlAn4DqOJsqfbUJEjRuKqHj1azmFWDpN1DE9DChC4xxJQxbGt4kk3z_NsdJsT6UNXOz092VbsSdb7LoGCQtOGYXeNfQijr1-Bm4/s1600/IMG_3878.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0eAmydobPWc79oYiiyfeiNf1B6kSlofd5HIyNswIgmlAn4DqOJsqfbUJEjRuKqHj1azmFWDpN1DE9DChC4xxJQxbGt4kk3z_NsdJsT6UNXOz092VbsSdb7LoGCQtOGYXeNfQijr1-Bm4/s320/IMG_3878.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<br />
Every time we go through a life-changing event, our colors deepen, we mature,
and the baptism makes us more…us. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We’re us, concentrated. Stronger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">con·cen·trate (<i>verb</i>): </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">to unify, converge, focus; </span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">to intensify or make more pure</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">to separate so as to improve the quality of the valuable portion</span></li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwiW_bEgM9A6jKVYzCCQnwH92QMdWYugotP1FRjYgMNJXqF57tKOYbhVinsVP-nOzxjcIIgw7mR3oQeb_XOf01KcUIz1agPx126aHGjW3zjdbGYC_AwlRyJ3EsgpH09McyEvLD7nenvI/s1600/IMG_3877.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwiW_bEgM9A6jKVYzCCQnwH92QMdWYugotP1FRjYgMNJXqF57tKOYbhVinsVP-nOzxjcIIgw7mR3oQeb_XOf01KcUIz1agPx126aHGjW3zjdbGYC_AwlRyJ3EsgpH09McyEvLD7nenvI/s320/IMG_3877.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even knowing this, it is still an awful, awe-full feeling to know
that someone you love is about to walk through a pain that they have no idea is
coming. You know it will make them stronger, but you also know that the
strength is birthed through anguish.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To deliver an announcement that will bring pain. To bear news that
will bring heartache. To know from experience the natural outcome or
consequences of a choice that a loved one is just starting to step into
themselves, for better or worse. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(But this calls for a warning: those
who flaunt their ego with a cursing <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">know-it-all,
just-you-wait, it-only-gets-worse<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> attitude leave nothing but a nasty film on
those who are hurting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We must lead loved
ones with maturity and grace.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">During the week leading up to His crucifixion, Jesus knew His
disciples were going to misunderstand it entirely. Before this Sunday I never
realized that they would also misunderstand His words, “It is finished.” He
knew they would dye, and die, as they walked through pain and terror for two
days, soaking in hot, vinegary water. He knew what was coming for Himself and
still had deep empathy for His friends, who would not realize that the third
day would bring resolution and answers. Color. They went in weak and scared,
and came out fearless, bold, ready to die for truth - and the world was
changed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The eggs go in, white. Beautiful and uniform, but all pretty much
the same.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They all get buried…bathed…baptized…in a new color. No one would
ever describe them as “common” again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndLc3Dq8SlzA82XML4Z5NpKiQv1iP1u2Lit3vLcsYB9heNFEZrHkGB1nukrcE_t84w3uIVf8LB5toc_M4imfiBPpmhHbxzwu0rwLaHa9KXPgjcPYEdp4r9mM6z9hmVA0rUYX2YO4QZx8/s1600/IMG_3876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndLc3Dq8SlzA82XML4Z5NpKiQv1iP1u2Lit3vLcsYB9heNFEZrHkGB1nukrcE_t84w3uIVf8LB5toc_M4imfiBPpmhHbxzwu0rwLaHa9KXPgjcPYEdp4r9mM6z9hmVA0rUYX2YO4QZx8/s320/IMG_3876.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He knew the joy that was coming for them. He knew they would be
stronger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The white egg is only prologue. Life happens and we soak in the dye
as we die to self, sometimes again and again and again. </span></span>You are the valuable portion being set apart, made more pure. <span style="font-family: inherit;">And suddenly, there
is…revelation. Joy and life. Color and complexity. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And we are us, concentrated. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Stronger.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-78894873492479499642013-03-23T00:53:00.001-08:002013-03-23T11:08:08.538-08:00an interruption in our regularly scheduled programmingSometimes there is a theme. Sometimes I'm a little slow to pick up on it, but this time I noticed right away.<br />
<br />
We have an almost-sacred date night at our house. Once a week, after the kids are in bed, we will make a fun dinner - sometimes sushi, sometimes <a href="http://pinterest.com/baruchslullaby/fooood/" target="_blank">a new find on Pinterest</a>, sometimes Chinese. Occasionally we'll get take-out from our favorite Chinese food restaurant and justify it as the control group in our attempts to learn to make the perfect homemade honey sesame chicken (we must do more research on this). And we'll settle onto the couch with our plates of yumminess to a fun movie that we've been looking forward to, usually interrupted only, oh, three or four times by children coming out of their rooms. Bliss.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqH2H68JDpuH-NdkO7OLfAKk6B31dNK0lkVPV4rJ-cc3sOC7AvRm9l47sE_GBcIsuCVNMBq627xgw15bTlPomWXCk97_njyCPyYzQHncRwexazBrbw-fjjH-0oZ1ZPOKGycekXkJt5Dk/s1600/IMG_0709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqH2H68JDpuH-NdkO7OLfAKk6B31dNK0lkVPV4rJ-cc3sOC7AvRm9l47sE_GBcIsuCVNMBq627xgw15bTlPomWXCk97_njyCPyYzQHncRwexazBrbw-fjjH-0oZ1ZPOKGycekXkJt5Dk/s320/IMG_0709.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
But not lately.<br />
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The food has been good (<a href="http://www.squidoo.com/homemade-calzone" target="_blank">wow</a>). The movies have been...different. Still good, but not "fun"...not date-night material. Movies that are <i>important</i>, not entertainment. It feels like we've enrolled ourselves in some unintentional curriculum on opening our eyes to more of what needs our attention. Each time, I've both dreaded and looked forward to the growth.<br />
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We were both justice students in college, and in our less discerning days we read and watched and studied unspeakable criminal history. Vin came to know Jesus as a result of seeing the depravity of man and lack of answers in secular humanism, but as we've gotten older and wiser, we've also gotten more critical about what comes into our home and into our minds now.<br />
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A couple of years ago we saw <a href="http://www.thestoning.com/" target="_blank">The Stoning of Soraya M.</a> I'll be honest and tell you that we fast-forwarded a little, and still saw enough truth to haunt me. That said, it is still one of the most important movies I've ever seen, and I recommend it to every adult.<br />
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A few weeks ago is when the theme really started, though. Please note that I am not necessarily recommending these other movies, nor do I agree with everything in them; I'm saying that they've been broadening to me and God has been using them to move me further. Maybe this kind of education is not what some of you need, that's okay. I also love a good Jane Austen flick, so you're safe with me.<br />
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We saw <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-china-16638897" target="_blank">this movie</a>, and then <a href="http://www.machinegunpreacher.org/" target="_blank">this movie</a>. History-geek husband warned me about the setting of the first, and I knew about the issues of the other, and I struggled through them both, changed. Angry, but prayerful. More educated. And then we saw <a href="http://www.tradethemovie.com/" target="_blank">this movie</a> last weekend, and our eyes were vividly opened to what we had already been learning about and what we knew at least one, maybe both, of our adopted children were likely headed for.<br />
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My God...my God.<br />
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The theme is this - why is the culture of men taught that women and children are merely commodities to profit from, to exploit, and to dispose of when inconvenient? And why do we have a culture that puts up with this cheapening of us?<br />
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No, no, wait, this is America. We don't stone and otherwise brutally victimize women here, we don't recruit child soldiers here, and slavery was outlawed a century and a half ago.<br />
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Except...it <i>is </i><a href="http://exoduscry.com/prayer/city-in-focus/new-orleans/" target="_blank">here</a>. In America.<br />
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How bad will it have to get before we have enough of this and decide to raise a generation of sons to be real men, and daughters who will accept nothing less?<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">photo courtesy <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Picture-This-Photography/326888813997813">Picture This Photography</a></span></div>
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Our women are convinced that they are too weak and helpless to deal with pregnancy or childbirth, so their <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2295976/Kermit-Gosnell-House-horrors-abortion-clinic-worker-testifies-capital-murder-trial-killed-10-infants-delivered-late-term-abortion-snipping-NECKS.html#ixzz2O1UEVFYG">unborn children are slaughtered </a>by doctors for <a href="http://news.msn.com/us/worker-admits-cutting-10-babies-at-abortion-clinic">profit</a>. Our politicians give it a thumbs-up in exchange for votes, hailing themselves as champions of human rights and women's issues while <a href="http://www.childpredators.com/TheSolution.cfm">passing laws that protect predators and pedophiles</a>...while the women they've victimized wonder when their child's birthday would have been, and bleed from their vitals.<br />
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But it's not called that. It's called "choice."<br />
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Slavery was called "choice," though, too.<br />
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Real men...they're the ones that aren't addicted to exploitation. They're the men that are not so insecure that they cover their own weakness by destroying someone else's dignity and safety, manipulating the women or children around them when they feel threatened.<br />
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Will we decide to raise a generation of daughters to know their worth, who are not intimidated by creeps who are only interested in consumption and disposal? Our girls need to know that they are not take-and-trash.<br />
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Our boys need to know that the safety of women and children is worth battling for. Heroes will fight for their protection, so cowards can't prey on their exposure.<br />
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Our girls need not sit in the middle of the crossfire and just wait to be rescued, though. Our girls need to know that their femininity is not something to apologize or atone for, that pregnancy is not a disease, that motherhood is a role of honor, victory, and battle. Our girls need to know that <a href="http://theblacksphere.net/2013/03/victorias-secret-is-coming-for-your-middle-schooler/" target="_blank">they are not a program to be bought or sold</a>...<i>because they are <b>priceless.</b></i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV0zn7sTkrRshjAVvUsCFlyuMBhCLFeJQ8dR0YB6AAzUxoWwVi7LHxskIwadGSr6wucmPBt2h-IEjkteDImio8XKdp56VwoAQEDTPpZ7NpmErqBpIDRA5ZXMCkKxCCT1JNeDtN1cgY_fY/s1600/IMG_2634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV0zn7sTkrRshjAVvUsCFlyuMBhCLFeJQ8dR0YB6AAzUxoWwVi7LHxskIwadGSr6wucmPBt2h-IEjkteDImio8XKdp56VwoAQEDTPpZ7NpmErqBpIDRA5ZXMCkKxCCT1JNeDtN1cgY_fY/s320/IMG_2634.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>If you haven't already, please read <a href="http://wearethatfamily.com/2013/03/raising-daughters-in-a-world-that-devalues-them-7-things-we-must-tell-them/" target="_blank">this</a>. And <a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/2013/03/after-steubenville-what-our-sons-needs-to-know-about-manhood/" target="_blank">this</a>, too.</i><br />
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And then take a load off. Breathe, hug your kids, and pray. Love them fiercely, so they will love others fiercely. Teach them well, so they will recognize the frauds instead of falling for them. They are meant to transform the world...just like their parents.<br />
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We're looking forward, finally, to a fun movie date this weekend. <i>The Hobbit</i> and some <a href="http://www.doughmesstic.net/2010/11/04/bacon-wrapped-cream-cheese-jalapeno-bites/" target="_blank">bacon-wrapped-cream-cheese-stuffed-jalapenos</a> are on the menu. All in the name of research, of course.sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-7709028407017219052013-03-14T23:59:00.000-08:002013-03-15T00:38:52.792-08:00a progress report, of sortsI have some notes about what I wanted to write tonight. The cat is sitting on them. I tried moving them a little, and she moved too - she's persistent like that - and I can't bear to move her because she's my buddy. Let me work from memory and see what happens...<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sophie </span></div>
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We've been fighting the crud around here (you too?), and have been trying to get together with friends for a couple of weeks. With as many kids as we have added all together, we are waiting for that magical moment when the temperatures align and all nine to thirteen children are not seriously puking, fevering, ear-aching, or otherwise immovable.<br />
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Chamberlain went to bed last night with the sniffles and woke up in the middle of the night with a spider (the invisible, imaginary, dream world sort). Except she was stuffy and Vin had no idea what she was saying ("Dere's a 'pider id by bed ad cad you 'quish it? Ad I also wat by Bob and Warry busic back on..."). I translated, he got up, squished the imaginary spider, and turned on a VeggieTales CD. Five minutes later Reagan was crying and it was my turn.<br />
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Except usually I don't have to take a turn. In almost seven months, this is only the second time Reagan has gotten up in the middle of the night. Both times she was sick with a cold - once when we first came home (day two or three?), and then last night.<br />
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And you know what was amazing and wonderful about this?<br />
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The first time she woke up in the middle of the night, she was coughing terribly and couldn't breathe very well, and I couldn't do a thing about it but pray. I tried to comfort her and she screamed. I tried to help her blow her nose and she panicked. I urged her to take a drink of water and she sobbed...the more I tried, the worse she got. I finally went back to bed that night and listened to her cry herself to sleep after I left the room.<br />
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But last night?<br />
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She called me mama. I helped her blow her nose. I put vapo-rub on her feet (you know this will stop coughing, don't you?) and peppermint oil on her chest and forehead and she laid back, safe and content. As I shut the door, she said, "Ni-night, Mama..." and fell asleep happy, not quite seven months later.<br />
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A year ago we were in the city that rhymes with seven. It was <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/03/how-day-goes.html" target="_blank">our first week with Andrey</a>, just meeting him. This week now, in our part of Alaska, the weather is very similar to what it was last year, in that city in Bulgaria. I woke up this morning and could feel the same-ness of it from the light in the sky and the waving bare branches.<br />
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This week last year, we heard Andrey say two sentences on his own, maybe. This week, this year, he is getting in trouble for having his favorite stuffed animal on the table at mealtimes, and he argues about it. "But Koosten is huuungry! See? Koosten saying," - insert squeaky voice - "<i>I'm hungry</i>!" Yep.<br />
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Around this time last year, the only one who could <a href="http://baruchslullaby.blogspot.com/2012/02/translation-please.html" target="_blank">translate for Chamberlain</a> was Iree. Now, almost all of us can almost always tell what she's saying (with the exception of middle of the night, stuffy-nosed conversations). For example, the "veggietor" is not a reptile, it's the veggie store. An eye is an eye, an "oo" is an ear, two oos means two ears, and we all know that. She is also reveling in her new ability to pronounce the L sound with a flourish...when she's not too stuffy.<br />
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"Llllook!" she says at the lunch table. She holds up her sandwich: "It's a dwagon!" Another bite. "Oh! Now it's a lllion!" Another bite. "It's a kitty, with two oos!" Another bite. "Oh, a kitty with one oo!"<br />
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You should be glad we don't feed her pop tarts.<br />
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(you might also be glad that we homeschool...)<br />
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A year ago, I thought we had a pretty good handle on <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/03/notes.html" target="_blank">potty humor</a>. Fast forward to this year, when a few days ago I asked a certain child to add 87 + 5, and he started to answer, "Ninety--" but was interrupted by musical noises that can only be produced by small boys after eating too much chili. Older brother answered for him, though. The answer, of course, was...<br />
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Ninety-toot.sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-5081576079914046192013-03-04T21:33:00.001-09:002013-03-13T00:49:18.871-08:00introducing graceIt's a fleeting spring day. We will have snow several more times, probably at least one more cold spell, and the weather will hem and haw its muddy way through the next couple of slushy months until we are dried out and blooming again.<br />
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But for today, we had sun. We ran errands in forty degrees and felt free without hats and mittens. Vin took most of the kids shopping while I took two of the girls to a local ice cream joint because Iree had earned a special treat. For just over $6 we ate mint chocolate chip and fireweed honey and chatted with tourists. They asked if I recommended the ice cream, what fireweed jam tastes like, and what the heck a lingonberry is. They asked if I lived here. They asked if I was born here. They did not (amazingly enough) ask if I personally knew any political figures from here (wow!) which is probably the saving grace that kept me from pointing out the bumper sticker that says, <b>"Alaska is FULL. I hear the Yukon is lovely, though."</b><br />
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Really, they were nice. Then they mentioned that they were sad to be leaving because it looked like it was almost spring here. "Actually," I tried to tell her, "our spring is not really 'spring.' It's muddy and messy and gross. It smells bad and looks terrible."<br />
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She nodded with condescending expertise. "Oh, I know. It's just like that at home, in Pennsylvania."<br />
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Oh. Of course. Yes, I'm sure...it's <i>just </i>like that. Pardon me.<br />
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Smile, wave bye-bye, and leave. Just like that, easy.<br />
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Everyone wants to be an expert. Everyone wants a little respect for knowing something. We're all guilty. Usually it's harmless.<br />
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Sometimes it's not.<br />
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Our kids go swimming once a week, and next door is a place I've been curious about for a while. Our social worker mentioned it for our adoption and I thought I'd stop in just to check it out.<br />
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{have you ever done that, and left wishing that you had made an appointment to have all your teeth removed instead?}<br />
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I had Chamberlain and Reagan with me. We walked in and were greeted by the receptionist.<br />
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"Hi," I said. Smile. "We finalized our adoption six months ago and I just wanted to look around here. Is that okay?"<br />
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"Are you having any problems?"<br />
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Um. Well. That's a loaded question and I had no idea how to answer. So I fumbled with, "No...not really...well, just the normal stuff. Whatever normal is, anyway..." and I smiled again, hoping she understood.<br />
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She didn't...but it was worse than not understanding. Instead, she knew all about us, and there was no correcting her.<br />
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"Six months home? Oh, you're just <i>fine</i>. You're still in the honeymoon. Let me show you the library we have here."<br />
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"Actually, our honeymoon was over after three days with one of them, and we never had a honeymoon with the other," I said.<br />
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She is looking at Chamberlain and doesn't try very hard to hide the fact that she's rolling her eyes at what I just said. "No, you're still in it. Trust me. Just wait, it'll get worse."<br />
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Oh. Thank you <i>so </i>much.<br />
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Then she talked to me about books for adopting toddlers. And adopting from Russia. She never once asked how old the children were, where we adopted from, or how many other children we have. She obviously assumed that the children I had with me were both adopted and both toddlers, and since they were both white we had probably adopted from Russia.<br />
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Ohhhh. Of <i>course.</i><br />
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I smiled. I really tried, at least...I think I was smiling. And I asked her, "Have you adopted?"<br />
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She straightened up a little. "Um, no. No, I haven't...but I've done guardianship. Yep, I've been through it <i>allll </i>with attachment."<br />
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Yes. Yes, of course you have.<i> Except you haven't</i>, I thought, and left. Smile, wave bye-bye, and leave. <br />
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I felt like I'd been puked on by someone who was supposed to be there as a resource and instead was there only to inflate her own ego.<a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2011/09/praying-them-home.html" target="_blank"> It's not the first time we've seen this in the adoption process.</a>..or the medical field...or anywhere.<br />
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We assume so much, and often know so little.<br />
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A while back, in an extremely rare situation, Vin was scheduled to work until the wee hours of the morning. I knew I was going to be going to bed alone. I know that many married women do this often for a variety of reasons but I am not one of them. I made the best of it and thought I'd get some writing done, some primping done, and go to bed at a reasonable hour...say, 1 am. Maybe two.<br />
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Ha. <br />
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I'm obviously not responsible enough to put myself to bed at a reasonable hour. So after procrastinating for two hours, I stayed up until 3 am blogging, writing, and eating ridiculous amounts of ice cream. I felt safe, really. I can imagine few things more terrifying for an intruder than to be met with an Alaskan woman on a sugar high wearing an avocado mask with a .44 in one hand and her knitting in the other.<br />
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We had a situation over the last year that kept us on our toes, tightly sealed, and on the alert for months. We were <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/11/make-me-stronger.html" target="_blank">on the lookout and on our knees for someone</a> who had demanded more grace than most of us had left.<br />
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There are people that are presumptuous and intrusive and insincere, lacking boundaries and wanting camaraderie. Instead they are met with grace. People who willfully put themselves in a corrupt situation that hurts others, seeking acceptance and even hoping for approval. What they are getting is grace.<br />
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Maybe they don't even know the difference.<br />
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My heart knows the difference, though. And my heart feels better when I am giving grace instead of giving in...or getting even.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Oh, Mrs. Clennam, Mrs. Clennam," said Little Dorrit, "angry feelings and unforgiving deeds are no comfort and no guide to you and me. My life has been passed in this poor prison, and my teaching has been very defective; but, let me implore you to remember later and better days. Be guided only by the healer of the sick, the raiser of the dead, the friend of all who were afflicted and forlorn, the patient Master who shed tears of compassion for our infirmities. We cannot but be right if we put all the rest away, and do everything in remembrance of Him. There is no vengeance and no infliction of suffering in his life, I am sure. There can be no confusion in following him, and seeking for no other footsteps, I am certain!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">- Charles Dickens, <i>Little Dorrit</i></span><br />
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I'm learning that grace looks different in different circumstances. For example, in some cases we can smile and nod...and that's grace.<br />
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In other cases, we can forgive and also decide ahead of time that if a certain situation occurs, we will make every effort to aim judiciously and...and...only shoot the intruder in the leg.<br />
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And that's grace, too.sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-67916599342649080742013-02-27T00:15:00.000-09:002013-02-27T00:15:30.694-09:00six months todaySix months ago at this moment, I was unconscious from the intoxicated stupification that can only be induced by an 11-hour jet lag. We flew the <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/08/victory-lap.html" target="_blank">victory lap</a> over Europe, over the Arctic Circle, and over the moon with our newly redeemed son and daughter. <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/09/homecoming.html" target="_blank">At the airport</a> we hugged our kids, hugged our friends, somehow drove all the way home, and promptly put everyone to bed at 6 pm so we could collapse with dignity instead of being peeled off the kitchen floor by our 12-year-old.<br />
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I've been slowly coming to ever since. The fog is lifting and the sun is shining and I almost never feel like I just got whacked by the freezer door...except for the other day when I <i>did </i>get whacked by the freezer door...anyway, I usually feel pretty good lately.<br />
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We have two little girls who have both decided that going potty on the potty is a pretty great thing. I have gone for daaaaaays without changing a stinky diaper and this victory alone makes me less tentative of getting out of bed in the morning.<br />
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We have a little boy who has not had an "askident" for weeks. He often grins and announces, "No wadder...no askident!" before bedtime and we are overjoyed that he now understands the relationship between clear water going into the body and yellow water coming out of it. This was a huge relief to us because for a while it looked like he was going to start having accidents on purpose just for the joy of showering afterward every time he could pull it off.<br />
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We have a big boy who is learning to read and play the piano beautifully. He turns seven very soon and continues to be the bigger-and-wiser-though-still-slightly-younger brother to Andrey and Reagan. He has navigated the weirdness wonderfully and I love his fluffy red head.<br />
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We have a big girl who gets her little sisters dressed in the morning and even helps them make their beds. She is also playing the piano beautifully and composing her own music. Her freehand, wavy staff thrills me.<br />
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We have a biggest boy who is learning geometry in sixth grade that I never learned in tenth (fascinating stuff!) and reading <i>Lord of the Rings</i> and Plutarch. I thought I had lost him in Costco last week and he reassured me that no harm could come to him because, don't you know, he had his knife. Well, that's a relief. (!)<br />
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There are still many unknowns and surprises. The other day I found Reagan with a magnet stuck to her head - one of those 3/4 inch building kit magnets that come with a ton of ball bearings; they're strong little suckers. Sticking right up out of the side of her head. My first thought was,<i> "Oh, Jesus!!!"</i> and then (I'll be honest) <i>"Well, that explains a lot..."</i> I was calmly trying to figure out whether I should call the doctor or our attorney in Bulgaria first. And then I realized it was stuck to her barrette.<br />
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Happy anniversary to us. We've been home, all eight of us, all together, for good, for ever, for six months.<br />
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I think we're going to make it.sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-5067757174492683432013-02-10T23:16:00.000-09:002013-06-19T14:15:26.030-08:00what we really look like A rare thing happened this week. We've been getting ready for our 6-month post adoption requirements - gathering photos, checking our documents, arranging our home visit with the social worker, etc...and we realized that we needed a family photo to send to Bulgaria. They want to know what we look like. Uh oh. With all eight of us? That doesn't happen very often around here.<br />
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It took some work, as you can probably guess. We used the timer on our little click and shoot camera, arranged ourselves with the woods as our backdrop, and took turns running full-tilt from the deck, skidding across the slippery sidewalk, leaping over the snowberm and up the hill in less than ten seconds so we could compose ourselves with dignity and act like we had been waiting patiently for, oh, <i>minutes</i>, before the camera went click.<br />
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Wanna see?<br />
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Oh, wait, not that one. Maybe it's this -<br />
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Whoops. So sorry. Hold on...<br />
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Dang. Okay, I've got it. Here you go:<br />
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See? Dignified, like I said.<br />
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You'll probably notice that one of us does not care to be in front of the camera at all. We get the stinkface, the I'm-being-poisoned face, and the blurry bolting-out-of-the-picture action shot all the time. He can be bribed with chocolate chips for Baruch's Lullaby photos, though.<br />
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Let me illustrate - pretend you can hear the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qAMLCDnCLzs" target="_blank">Peer Gynt Suite by Grieg</a> for full effect:<br />
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<i>Ah, the peaceful scene of complacent children on a lawn in summer, reading a book together...</i><br />
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<i>But...hark! What is this? Methinks I hear the faintest sound of a small mechanical device clicking...</i><br />
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(Grieg abruptly interrupted by TobyMac's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAIv4ocjdEA" target="_blank">Showstopper</a>)<br />
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<i>Dude<b>, RUN!!</b> <b>She's got the camera again, I'm outta here!</b></i><br />
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I can't figure it out. Nothing happens to him when we take his picture, but he cringes. He's convinced it's to be avoided at all costs.<br />
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We're a lot alike in some ways. He's my son...he looks like me. I remember doing the same thing too when I was younger...sometime last year.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfEiah_O3IpyGHHFAMiiPjjSrKROeCHkWnYUGCwHMysD7HVWUFPBNDUR7bp3iaTQvQrwWIVTuBTBC_pXitz0WGV7eATJPcgIx3oAbj4N2uUUXJd1Rvf5dAe8s1PsQvqL8XDTlN1wTDZ7A/s1600/IMG_3260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfEiah_O3IpyGHHFAMiiPjjSrKROeCHkWnYUGCwHMysD7HVWUFPBNDUR7bp3iaTQvQrwWIVTuBTBC_pXitz0WGV7eATJPcgIx3oAbj4N2uUUXJd1Rvf5dAe8s1PsQvqL8XDTlN1wTDZ7A/s320/IMG_3260.JPG" width="232" /></a></div>
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(Kidding. I was probably his age and I clearly remember hiding behind my favorite dog at my grandma's house when someone had a camera.)<br />
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Actually, I was the same way last week. Not cringing from photos, but from loud noises...I was sick for two days and spent those 48 hours mostly on the couch or in bed with a few staggering trips to the bathroom. Awful, awful headache and dizziness. No one else had it, just me, and every noise made me cringe - a kid yelling, a chair being scraped across the floor, a dish clinking...everything made my head pound. For days afterward I flinched whenever there was a loud noise. No one else was bothered by it, but it was real to me. The headache was gone, I was all better, there was no threat, but I had gotten used to cringing from the noise and it had turned into habit.<br />
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Reagan does the same thing when I brush her hair. I remember that, too - I had long hair when I was little, and I also hated having my hair brushed. But even when all the tangles are out and the brush goes through smoothly, she jerks away and whimpers like she's being hurt. It's become a habit to her.<br />
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She's been hurt before. She knows what it's like, and she thinks it might be coming again. The pain isn't real...but the fear of it is very real.<br />
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A couple of days after I was healthy again, Reagan kept dropping a (loud) toy repeatedly during quiet time. Andrey was napping, big kids were doing assignments, and I was still cringing a little from the headache that finally wasn't there. I asked her to put away the toy and find something quiet, but she dropped the toy again. On purpose. And then <i>again </i>on purpose. I caught a little flicker of a smile, and she knew that I knew that she knew she was disobeying. She went to timeout, and the toy went on the counter.<br />
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A couple of minutes pass. She's calm and sitting in the corner. I pick the toy up off the counter and repeat, "Reagan, you need to put this away" as I bend over to give it to her -<br />
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- and her arm flies up over her face, and she cringes and shudders. She cowers, afraid that I am going to hit her with this toy. She is flinching in a way I have not seen since we brought her out of the orphanage. She's shrinking into the corner to get away from me, feeling a very real fear of someone who is no threat to her at all.<br />
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She's not flinching from pain itself, but from fear and memory of pain. She's experienced abuse and she's afraid of it returning. Six months is apparently not long enough to convince her that this new female, this mommy-person, is safe to be around when she knows she's gotten in trouble.<br />
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How do you rebuild trust after so much pain?<br />
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We talked about this and many other things with the social worker during our visit this week. We talked about attachment, trust, bonding...she asked if we thought Reagan and Andrey understand the adoption or the concept of family, and we don't know. Andrey probably does a little more than Reagan. But it's pretty likely that they both think that they've just landed in a really nice, small orphanage where there are only two grownups and they talk funny and their names are Mommy and Daddy. They might think that Mommy is what you call any grown up female, and Daddy is what you call all grown up men - unless they have a mustache and glasses, in which case their name is probably Grandpa.<br />
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I dunno.<br />
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I do know that trust is a biggie. The whole trust-obey thing is something we've had to be hypervigilant about, especially in public. Especially since any other grownup is likely regarded as a potential Mommy or Daddy to them.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="color: #990000;">[BZZZZT...We interrupt this blog post for a very important Public Service Announcement. If you see any adoptive family you know in public with their kids, please <b>do not touch their adopted children.</b> Please do not "help" the parents with their adopted children in any way without asking first. Failure to do so may result in outbursts, snappishness, dirty looks, and major fallout afterward...not to mention how the children might respond.] </span></i></blockquote>
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I've mentioned <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/12/phantoms-flurries-and-snowdrifts.html" target="_blank">here</a> before that Reagan tends to stall on stairs. Among other things, she has issues with obedience, trust, balance, motor skills, and coordination, and all of these come into play at the top of a new set of stairs.<br />
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She knows she can hold the rail or hold our hands and take her time about it...but if a well-meaning person comes along and takes her hand after Mommy or Daddy have told her to hold the rail, then suddenly she is picking out a new Mommy or Daddy, and it's not us. It's triangulation, and it's two steps forward, twenty steps back.<br />
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This kind of help is like pouring gasoline onto a fire. <b>Just because it's wet doesn't mean it will put the fire out.</b><br />
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"But she needs to learn to trust other people, too." Nope, she doesn't. She might go home with any stranger who gave her a fake smile. Trusting strangers is clearly not the issue. <i>She needs to learn to trust <b>her parents</b> and obey them.</i> Navigating relationships with other people is just going to have to wait. She needs to know that she belongs to a special group of people called <i>family</i>. Regardless of race or birth or features, she looks like us. She belongs in the picture with us.<br />
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How do you build trust after such pain? How do you teach someone that they no longer have to flinch?<br />
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I'm asking this question and I have no easy answers.<br />
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She needs to know that she's safe, that she's loved, that she's valued. These are things that are as alien to her as the concept of family. We're leading her to the <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2013/01/let-it-break.html" target="_blank">stream</a>, the living water that's <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/09/deep-and-wide.html" target="_blank">deep and wide</a> and washes all of us. Someday she'll look into that water and she'll see the One that says, "You're My daughter, you look like Me."<br />
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She'll look in the water and she'll see what she really looks like, too. She'll see that she's safe, valued, loved. She's part of a family. She's in the picture with us. Someday she'll stop flinching and realize that we're really not that scary...<br />
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...most of the time, at least. I admit, sometimes a little cropping is in order.<br />
<br />sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-72734017471966980342013-02-06T22:52:00.001-09:002013-02-06T22:52:17.734-09:00life is funny, volume 2012<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b>boys are wise...and hysterical</b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText">
Reading an
Amelia Bedelia book with Afton, and there is a page about a beauty parlor. He
says, "Dey're called beauty shops, but sometimes dey're actually ugly
shops."<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 15px;">We are finally at positive temperatures and I tell the kids they <b><i>must </i></b>go outside for at least a few minutes, no exceptions, no whining. We need the fresh air and have been house-bound for days, but Mattie argues, "Why? There's air in here, isn't there? And if the air in here isn't fresh, why do you let us come back in, anyway?" Sometimes I wonder that, too.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15px;">"MOM!! AHHHH!!! I have a SPWINTER! It's on my FOOT! HELP!! Can you GET IT OUT FOR ME??!!" Somehow he expects me to remedy this while he is flopping around on the floor like an electrified octopus. Hmm.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Watching a 6 year-old attempt to peel a kiwi: there's fuzz
everywhere, but no green fruit exposed yet. He says he's giving it a haircut.</span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It's
funny how your kids pick up on your habits. Afton just showed me a battle
scene he made out of Star Wars Lego dudes, and one of the Ewoks is pointing a
spear at a bad guy...with a coffee cup in his free hand. Nice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 15px;">It's official. Little boys everywhere have one thing in common, regardless of nationality, skin color or upbringing. This one thing I have learned: when they fart, they giggle. True story.</span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKyeM-BgbAnjksfWmMOkfBAVEgfOWs6DoROqqZoZ8WyJiZ3OxF5mXQ9kYcIvXvoc1roAZSlZeTFS7TcOS-2fcqf4kw2YTAfdN4yxGg3kDTwyrB61x8qwkh6YUWJSRGqdVVQyHBJFncJkQ/s1600/IMG_3119.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKyeM-BgbAnjksfWmMOkfBAVEgfOWs6DoROqqZoZ8WyJiZ3OxF5mXQ9kYcIvXvoc1roAZSlZeTFS7TcOS-2fcqf4kw2YTAfdN4yxGg3kDTwyrB61x8qwkh6YUWJSRGqdVVQyHBJFncJkQ/s320/IMG_3119.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<b>on learning English</b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Reagan cannot pronounce "be excused" at the table yet in her
Bulgarian-English-Toddler speak. It's okay, though - someone usually interprets
for her, resulting in vague remarks about her wanting to ride a caboose, beat a
caboose, or be caboosed toward the end of the meal.</span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">After a victorious day punctuated with moments of great
frustration, we capped it off with an overly cocky child demanding tabasco
sauce with dinner - quickly followed by the joy of watching natural
consequences ensue. The play-by-play is as follows:</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span><span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mattie, to Andrey: Do you want this? It's called...TABASCO. (big grin)</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span><span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Me, to Mattie: Noooo!! NO! Don't offer him that! (starts to remove tabasco amid loud protests of both Mattie and his unsuspecting victim)</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span><span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Mattie: But Mom, he wants it! See?!</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span><span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Me, to Andrey: It's hot. Spicy. TOPLO. You sure you want it?</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span><span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Andrey: Da. (huge grin)</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span><span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Me: Oooookay...(motions to Andrey to just dip his finger first to taste it)</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span><span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Andrey's grin widens and he scoops a generous amount onto his fingertip. He takes a mouthful, smiles at his audience in a self-satisfyingly manner for about 1.5 seconds...and then commences convulsing and screaming as though we had done something terrible to him, to the great entertainment of everyone else. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 11pt;">God loves me.</span></blockquote>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 15px;">Ahh, the joys and challenges of a having children who are learning motor skills and English simultaneously: Reagan is trying to put on a shirt, pokes herself in the eye, screams, and then says, "I'm! Sorry!" to herself.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8lKZuve9_u_YezIqLaFfs9c5zfPQ_nmDWYJaM-XlH4BBWX1jFPiCLlijEw437J-zQYxVqHXf6xE9isa1LN0jTSzHVnXx89e9cRx0pT1VkPYTfauHqjHEKT98vC9yhrYTNZp3TAVLnlA/s1600/IMG_1105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8lKZuve9_u_YezIqLaFfs9c5zfPQ_nmDWYJaM-XlH4BBWX1jFPiCLlijEw437J-zQYxVqHXf6xE9isa1LN0jTSzHVnXx89e9cRx0pT1VkPYTfauHqjHEKT98vC9yhrYTNZp3TAVLnlA/s320/IMG_1105.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><b>on homeschooling</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mattie is reading some
amazing stuff this year: Kipling's poetry, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the
Sea, Of Courage Undaunted...but he keeps stumbling over the word
"copse" - replacing it, of course, with "corpse." This is not a problem when he's reading Tom Sawyer, though.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Olympics are so educational...we're watching syncronized
diving, and we've just about mastered how to say "One, two, three" in
Chinese.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Unless, of course, they're actually saying,
"Ready, set, go." I really have no idea.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 15px;"><b>life in Alaska</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Moms!
Always, <i>always </i>have a camera with you, on your person, at all times! Then when
you have a child suspended upside down from a tree because her snowpants got
caught on a branch, you can snap a few photos before rescuing her. I am <b>so
</b>upset that I don't have pictures of this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Woke
up to 8 degrees. It's the time of year that I dream of making handmade afghans
and quilts for every bed...unfortunately, Vince opposes sleeping in a
toddler bed and so do most of our other children, so it looks like this may
never happen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I
was just informed by our oldest daughter that she smashed a mosquito with her
royal scepter. Way to show that bad boy, Princess.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt;">I'm not making this up: This
afternoon I was standing in line at the post office. Two older men in front of
me recognized each other, and one of them said, "Jim! Where you been,
man?!"<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt;">"Well, actually...in jail. I just got out!"<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt;">And the other guy says, "Me too!"</span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After checking the inventory in our freezer, Vince reports that we're down to one salmon breast. I am shocked and traumatized - I
am a lifelong Alaskan and I had NO IDEA salmon had those!</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCeEVfJMQ63jB9ATerlSppDTAl1GV5hMUeHVm0rJgDY8brZEsz7ldSjAw6lOPXzZPTrldzgvFNKsLCCjtPfXeNp6wLsn6ndfS38mYOscFIt0nn-umXY11f5cpTyr1_ZgeyEQ5lVbADKro/s1600/IMG_1110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCeEVfJMQ63jB9ATerlSppDTAl1GV5hMUeHVm0rJgDY8brZEsz7ldSjAw6lOPXzZPTrldzgvFNKsLCCjtPfXeNp6wLsn6ndfS38mYOscFIt0nn-umXY11f5cpTyr1_ZgeyEQ5lVbADKro/s320/IMG_1110.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText3" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt;"><b>why mama needs more coffee, a raise, and a nap</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
Princess and I endured the long wait in line at the post office by being orbited by
Chamberlain performing Ring Around the Rosie as we slowly moved to the front. We made it to the counter during
an encore presentation of "If You're Happy and You Know It," and
narrowly avoided the Hokey Pokey. Phew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I've
noticed a progression: when you have one child who can make their own toast,
the butter dish looks slightly mutilated. When you have two children, it
usually looks like someone has tried to play a game of tic-tac-toe on it with a
butterknife. But when you have more than two children, it looks like someone
has tried to make it into a sculpture and then shaken the entire toaster over
it for decoration.</span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText3">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText3">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 11pt;">Highlight of my day - in the middle of an important meeting, surrounded
by dozens of people I admire and love, with a toddler sitting in my lap...and
I reach for my coffee...and realize I am about to take a drink out of a sippy
cup.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText3">
<span style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText3">
<span style="font-size: 15px;">We were leaving the park and my bag felt like it was getting heavier and heavier...I looked behind me and caught Chamberlain in the process of depositing roughly half of the rocks from the parking lot into it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>Did
you know...</b> that the cup of prune juice that one of the kids put back in the
fridge to save for later looks remarkably like the cup of strong, black coffee
that you were saving for an afternoon latte? Don't forget to check that liquid
before you pour cream into it, people!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Hands-down, favorite vocabulary word of Little Miss: Bop-boo.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: white;">As in, "I don't need a diaper on my
bop-boo!" "Ow! I fell on my bop-boo!" and of course, "Wook,
Mommy! I put stickers on your bop-boo!"<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><b>and, um...that fasting from sugar thing hasn't really worked out</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Went
on Pinterest to look for dinner ideas and found about a dozen different
recipes...unfortunately, almost all of them involve chocolate. So as long as
we're having brownies, pie, or cookies for dinner, I'm totally set.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I'm
not sure what happened, but I just realized that I'm surrounded by a ton of
foil Reese's wrappers and there's no chocolate left in sight. What have I
done?!?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 15px;">**P.S. Want more? <a href="http://baruchslullaby.blogspot.com/2013/02/things-we-learned-in-2012.html" target="_blank">Baruch's Lullaby</a> has another dose. Enjoy!</span></div>
sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-34610405276345047512013-01-22T01:03:00.001-09:002013-01-22T01:21:30.803-09:00let it breakI am longing to write a warm, cozy post for you about books we're reading, new projects in the wings, and food-ish stuff. I want to sit down with you over a huge mug of tea and tell you how I've discovered books by Captain Marryat and Elizabeth Goudge and Charles Kingsley, and how I finally, finally, <i>finally</i>, after many years, have finished reading all of Jane Austen's published works (though there are only seven of them, and I admit that I had to hide behind a locked bathroom door more than once to make it happen).<br />
<br />
But instead, for today, I have to tell you about our last couple of Saturdays. The nerdy amongst us will have to talk books and tea later.<br />
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<a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/07/oh-saturday.html" target="_blank">Saturdays</a>, as many of you know, are Fridays for us. It's the one day a week that I almost always have to get up early (read: before 10am) and we spend the day doing most of the major chores, finishing school for the week, and getting ready for a restful weekend. I used to dread Saturdays (<span style="font-size: x-small;">well, <i>dread </i>is a strong word, but let's say...nope, "dread" is right on target)</span> but lately I've been enjoying them. Probably since November or so, when we started getting only five to six hours of daylight and the kids started sleeping in until after 9am.<br />
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Another thing that's different about Saturdays for us is that I'm more likely to have music playing to move us through the day of major scrubbing, vacuuming, and laundry. Vin reminded me after a hard day recently, "Are you listening to <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/09/finding-normal-in-loud-kind-of-quiet.html" target="_blank">His music, and saying His words</a>?" It's a great gift to have a husband who not only knows what God has been speaking to you about, but will also remind you of it when necessary. So we plug in the iPod and turn it up.<br />
<br />
We steep in music until the flavor of the day has changed. Regardless of what is happening in the moment, we've maintained our joy.<br />
<br />
The bigger boys are upstairs doing impertinent things with a vacuum cleaner. I am downstairs holding the other boy, who is raging in my arms while two little girls dance around us.<br />
<br />
He's actually upset because the music is playing and he wants it turned off. He tried to shut his door where he thought he couldn't hear it, but what he's really doing is hiding behind a hardened shell that has been cracking since we brought him home.<br />
<br />
He usually loves music, often asks for it, but he fights it now out of opposition and throws a fit because he cannot have his way. He doesn't realize that he's trying to reject us and protect himself from healing. He is an unborn baby in the warmth of the amniotic sac, not wanting to come to the real world where there is light. The waters broke, and he's been screaming ever since he had his first breath of air.<br />
<br />
We listen to the music anyway and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afgwvO5GI4Y" target="_blank">He is the remedy</a>. I'm convinced that the David Crowder Band was made for such a time as this.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Are you not thirsty?" said the Lion.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"I'm dying of thirst," said Jill.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Then drink," said the Lion.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"May I - could I - would you mind going away while I do?" </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">said Jill.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The Lion answered this only by a look and a very low growl. And as Jill gazed at its motionless bulk, she realized that she might as well have asked the whole mountain to move aside for her convenience.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The delicious rippling noise of the stream was driving her nearly frantic.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Will you promise not to - do anything to me, if I do come?" said Jill.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"I can make no promise," said the Lion.</span></blockquote>
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Another Saturday, and we are finishing cocoa after playing in the snow. Dishes are in the sink waiting to be scrubbed. Andrey comes in and points to a particularly nasty pan. "May pees crub dat?" he asks. He loves scrubbing dishes. I love that about him.</div>
<br />
But eggs are encrusted in it from breakfast. I run water into it and explain that he needs to wait until it's soaked for a while. When we soak first, the scrubbing is easier. Quicker. More painless. He agrees to wait a little while and goes off to play.<br />
<br />
Reagan brings her cup to the counter and it has been<i> so long</i> - almost two weeks? - since she has broken a dish, but I hear this one shatter as she walks to the counter. Glass in a million pieces, everywhere, and she is stepping in it while I run to her.<br />
<br />
She wasn't startled by the cup breaking. She is startled when I lift her out of the glass and rip off her sock that is covered in shards and throw it in the burn bin. She bears down and tries to fight me while I check her feet, which are fine, but there is still glass everywhere and she won't stay out of the kitchen while I clean up the mess. Timeout follows, but she fights it and tries to leave the room, to leave me.<br />
<br />
She is rejecting us to keep from being rejected first by us, but she doesn't realize that. She chooses to stay in a cage with no food and water, though the door is wide open. She is like an abused woman who has been in a bad relationship for too long, but refuses to break it off because freedom and healing are just too foreign and frightening.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"I daren't come to drink," said Jill.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Then you will die of thirst," said the Lion.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Oh dear!" said Jill, coming another step nearer. "I suppose I must go and look for another stream then."</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"There is no other stream," said the Lion.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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We move right into holding. My cheek is against hers and she turns away. Her eyes go everywhere but to mine, and I ask Him for His words. He is right there and doesn't make me wait for an answer.<br />
<br />
<i>"Let it break," </i>I whisper to her.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It never occurred to Jill to disbelieve the Lion - no one who had seen his stern face could do that - and her mind suddenly made itself up. It was the worst thing she had ever had to do, but she went forward to the stream, knelt down, and began scooping up water in her hand. It was the coldest, most refreshing water she had ever tasted.</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> - C.S. Lewis, <i>The Silver Chair</i></span></blockquote>
<i>"He has made you well." </i>And He has. She is a beautiful creature, crooked toes and all. No one misses her eyes when they first see her.<br />
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<i>"He is making you well..."</i> And He is. When we brought her out of the orphanage, she couldn't climb into a chair on her own or peel an opened banana, and she had parasites. Three hurdles overcome, a thousand to go.<br />
<br />
We watch them resist the Lion at the stream of living water all the time. We are steeping in His words, His music, and He breaks up the nasty chaff that has encrusted them both for six years. We have been there ourselves and we see others do it, too. <a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/09/deep-and-wide.html" target="_blank">He scrubs us all the time</a>... and it is much more painless with some soaking. The hard scale of insecurity, fear, pride...they're all the same thing, really...build up for a long time. It only breaks off with His water.sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-996412215314578322013-01-09T00:24:00.000-09:002013-01-09T00:24:43.951-09:00if you run<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, that was fast. 2012, zoom. The first week of 2013, whoosh. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I keep
forgetting that I have six kids now.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Silly, I don’t mean that I forget about the
kids. With as much noise as they make that is impossible, and I’m constantly
counting “onetwothreefourfivesix” just to make sure I
know where everyone is. Usually they take up quite a bit of square footage,
but other times they are deceptively compact and my train of thought runs like this: </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“<i>Six</i>? Ugh, only six! Who
are we missing?! Onetwothreefourfivesix, o</span>netwothreefourfivesix, onetwo... <span style="font-family: inherit;">threefour...five...six…oh, that<i> is</i> everyone. Okay…phew.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What I mean is that I keep forgetting,
or just have not really grasped yet, that I am a mother of six kids. Mine, for
keeps. Life is a blur and I can hardly keep track of what day of the week it is
(<a href="http://copperlightwood.blogspot.com/2012/11/whatever-works.html" target="_blank">or, um, month</a>) and the effort to slow down to enjoy life is in discord with the need to make sure everything that needs
to be done is getting done. It's an incessant conflict. It makes for a level of frantic frenzy that I
don’t like to have in my life. No matter how fast we go, there is never enough
time to clean everything, read everything, learn everything, teach everything, cook everything,
and still make sure everyone’s little toenails are clipped. It is a season of
running, and as much as I love slow, simple living, it’s just not possible
right now. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Some days I feel like I should be able
to slow down. Ridiculously enough, it is on those same days that I also feel like I should get more things done, too. We multitask and and let go of non-essentials
and still feel like life is a blur. We try to simplify but sometimes we
just…fly. No <i>simpli-</i> about it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I clean accidents in the bathroom and
referee children and check the hard-boiling eggs on the stove and find myself
burping a swaddled stuffed animal that has been left in my custody by our
toddler and realize that I’ve lost my tea somewhere upstairs. It’s probably in
the little girls play kitchen where several children have divvied it up among plastic teacups and are drinking it, filling up on the caffeine boost that I’m pretty sure I need more than they do.
I switch to coffee and make it a double, out of sheer self-defense.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes I run, sometimes I fly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Zoom. Did you see that? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me neither.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I love the reminders to slow down. I
need them, but I can’t always heed them. I can admire the beauty of our
daughter’s crooked toes, but I can’t stop there because I also have to wash her
feet. This is a season of running.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I ran into Proverbs after plowing
through Psalms over the last several months. S</span></span>omething caught my eye while <span style="font-family: inherit;">I was cruising through and I turned around to get a better look. It was
chapter four, verse twelve, and when I read it I collapsed as one who finds an
unexpected breather during an offensive push.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When you walk, your step will not be
hampered,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and<b> <i>if you run, you will not stumble</i></b><i>.</i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span lang="EN">Oh my word</span></i><span lang="EN">.
Tell me again!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If I run, I won’t stumble? You
mean…it’s okay? I found amazing sanction this verse.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s really okay to feel like life is at full tilt and zooming by? It's okay that there are seasons that are just like that? Because part of
life really <i>is</i> walking, but if you run because you have to…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">…and it still feels like things are
being left undone, untouched, unheeded, and underfoot…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">…and slowing down means giving up,
falling down, and crashing…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s okay to just…run.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If there is a marriage, a child, a life
at stake, we must not be too late. Sometimes we have to run for lives to be
healed. Sometimes we just have to run because dinner must be made so the
children can be fed and work can be done and mommy can get to bed by midnight.
He knows, and it’s okay. He is our rest in the running. He is the spotter that keeps us from stumbling.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_CP5mobE6e4IYY7nj8OVzUNf6YxUk9ZROtkAv4xMCr_se1WXLaTjjIJoj1dsjpaNLcrPSFejksUmZrIwVPJO8y10xxy9XvTp867gZ29YgWkChpTPNBJ0zW15srLax53Vpwq0492iqOSk/s1600/IMG_2950.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_CP5mobE6e4IYY7nj8OVzUNf6YxUk9ZROtkAv4xMCr_se1WXLaTjjIJoj1dsjpaNLcrPSFejksUmZrIwVPJO8y10xxy9XvTp867gZ29YgWkChpTPNBJ0zW15srLax53Vpwq0492iqOSk/s320/IMG_2950.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes we have to run because the
time is short. <a href="http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2013/jan/8/russian-ban-on-us-adoption-turns-children-into-paw/" target="_blank">Countries shut down entire adoption programs</a> and families are
left in the middle, too late. Children are left as political pawns in the orphanages, and we have
to run </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">before it is too late to bring them home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes we must run, as one who is anxious for the baton to be passed and grabs it with urgency, boldly rushing into the battle ahead.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes we run...sometimes we fly.</span></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGVrPaKzRLE_KkMSCaruESaTHJysEdwG5TJ9dk4E4uBrzXetufgtfTc_zaWyaujiu7dZkunu1OWKJmQI_e9mWpm1fGbblZM1HThFZ5-o6myIUgWhK2wJxRm3k54dWEgP7tiWSmjcZnF0/s1600/IMG_2215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGVrPaKzRLE_KkMSCaruESaTHJysEdwG5TJ9dk4E4uBrzXetufgtfTc_zaWyaujiu7dZkunu1OWKJmQI_e9mWpm1fGbblZM1HThFZ5-o6myIUgWhK2wJxRm3k54dWEgP7tiWSmjcZnF0/s320/IMG_2215.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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sacra vimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04873890064879355727noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2230469510279075783.post-27487787562755020432012-12-29T00:34:00.002-09:002012-12-29T00:34:41.009-09:00this place isn't normal We had a dilemma this Christmas. A few years ago, when there were just six of us, I bought some gorgeous handmade stockings from a friend of mine. I meant to buy two more this year, and forgot...<br />
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...and then, getting closer to Christmas, I thought I would whip something up all quick-like, but the sewing machine broke. I'm sure it's an easy fix, just something about "tension" and tightening something or oiling something else, but I don't like machinery and that's why I'm a knitter (I never need tightened or oiled, thankyouverymuch). But knitting stockings is not fast work, so we were really at a loss...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnd-3ByEuk6411PfDgXLm9w84TUk9FDjqVy195gSa2sXWOgTBH1DfoiAb9YR00gQJndu6G1muui_ZCCuRAGqTHz-93e6xDkAv1vA0pV95jOgh6FpPTkCSHtxWpwCtoKQqtDVWydn7YXQ/s1600/IMG_2803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnd-3ByEuk6411PfDgXLm9w84TUk9FDjqVy195gSa2sXWOgTBH1DfoiAb9YR00gQJndu6G1muui_ZCCuRAGqTHz-93e6xDkAv1vA0pV95jOgh6FpPTkCSHtxWpwCtoKQqtDVWydn7YXQ/s320/IMG_2803.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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...until Vin thought of this:<br />
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Why, yes, my friends - that <i>is </i>a hockey bag and a hipwader! Oh, classy dude! In all fairness, the man reads Cicero and quotes Churchill, Shakespeare, and various irreverent Johnny Cash songs...and we ended up using our hiking backpacks instead. Phew. That was a close one.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7_8xjGXXk1PwoPz-PyX3S-CpPcGLVGDj7CIaZEo_mnJnOfffm5ZDnrLVJ0i7ksjVsvi1TqQpAMq1bBPXQB6HUbDbTFmaEZr_Owfw5Xmk_DzixyfQpyh15c4Siz1uRQEo7ivN2kstxd8/s1600/IMG_2797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7_8xjGXXk1PwoPz-PyX3S-CpPcGLVGDj7CIaZEo_mnJnOfffm5ZDnrLVJ0i7ksjVsvi1TqQpAMq1bBPXQB6HUbDbTFmaEZr_Owfw5Xmk_DzixyfQpyh15c4Siz1uRQEo7ivN2kstxd8/s320/IMG_2797.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Andrey and Reagan finally experienced their first Christmas. Everything was new to them - why is there a tree in the house? Why are there little lights everywhere? Why are there presents under the silly tree, and why can't we open them? Normal weird Christmas stuff. Neither of them even recognized a picture of Santa, and as far as we can tell, they have never had any kind of Christmas before.</div>
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Everyone has their own odd traditions. We put little treats in the kids' stockings, like yogurt covered pretzels, peppered cashews, sesame candies, and way too much chocolate. We open stockings first, and dump the the treats into bowls to share for a snacky breakfast while gifts are opened.<br />
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Remove the dishes of sweets, add some chopped apples and nuts for a second course...though in retrospect we probably should've reversed the menu.<br />
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No one gets underwear in their stockings, but we always have boxes and boxes of tea, and the three smallest ones each got their own tea mug.<br />
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No underwear...but Reagan did get her own hairbrush, and it's clear that she was immediately suspicious of a holiday in which people give each other instruments of torture.</div>
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Several knit items are always called for, and one of these years I will get them all finished before 2am on Christmas Eve.<br />
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It is happy, simple, and warm. It's weird, though, too.</div>
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This year we had no big traditional meal either on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. We saw family both days, we missed other family both days, and it will never be like it used to be. Our little family has changed, our bigger family is changing, and it is not normal. It is out of the box and awkward and more than a little uncomfortable, like trying to get dressed in the dark when someone has turned all of your clothes inside out. The older kids ask questions and we pray and try to smile and give the best answers we can.</div>
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It's not so bad for us, though. We have other loved ones whose lives are completely flipped upside down, who are starting completely over, who are in a new place, <a href="http://littlewondersofourlife.blogspot.com/2012/12/let-me-love-him-longer.html" target="_blank">who are spending Christmas in the hospital</a>, or who are without a home entirely. This Christmas, this year, this place, isn't normal. </div>
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This isn't the way things are done. At the very least, we think the surface of things should be like a nice Christmas photo, pretty, posed, and stylish. Only quirky enough to be charming, but please, none of that messy realness that shows that things underneath are infected and painful and requiring intervention. It's just too unconventional.</div>
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But life happens and sometimes you don't have a choice between unconventional or inconvenient or heartbreakingly messy. He is here in the midst of it, and He made the holiday for you. He intimately knows the messy, awkward, and heartbreaking. </div>
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<div>
He was born in a rock shelter. Delivered by an unmarried teenager on a dirt floor, with a carpenter as a midwife. His first bed was a feeding trough. Adopted by a man who was not His biological father. Gossiped about His entire life, until finally sentenced to death on trumped-up charges by people unworthy to walk in His shadow.</div>
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Rose again, three days later. He walked out of that cave, alive.</div>
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He wrote the Book on unconventional living. In whatever kind of not-normal we are in, in all of the unknown, in all of the pain and strangeness, He is <i>Emmanuel</i>...God with us. With us. </div>
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There is nowhere we can go, or be taken, or suddenly find ourselves in, where He will not meet us. He is here, with us.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Where can we go from His Spirit?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Or where could we hide </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">that we could not be found by Him?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In marriage, divorce, or separation, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">He's there...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If I sleep in a hospital, at a friend's house, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">in a different country, a shelter, or a new home, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">He is there...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If I fly across the ocean or sail in ships,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> even in the strangest places and most remote seas, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">even there He leads me, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and He holds my hand.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">- <i>Psalm 139:7-10, my own impudent paraphrase</i></span></span></div>
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When all feels bleak and the world caves in around us and we have no idea what will happen tomorrow, He is there. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">and the light about me be night,"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> even the darkness is not dark to You; </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">the night is bright as the day, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">for darkness is as light with You.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Psalm 139:11-12, ESV</span></div>
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Life will be irregular and excruciating and bizarre. He is here. Walking with us, making us uncommon. He will walk with us out of the cave, alive.</div>
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