something deep and witty

A list

2012-01-17T15:53:00.001-06:00

1. My brain is a mash of to-do lists and snatches of random song lyrics.

2. My feet are so swollen that it hurts to walk. Nothing will help except going home and sitting on the couch.

3. The baby is so low--even though the midwives tell me he's still "high"--that it hurts to walk.

4. I don't think we're going to actually ever have a baby. I think I'm just going to be pregnant. Forever. Much less fun.

5. I've gotten about 10 hours of sleep in the past two nights combined. See also number 1.

6. After six months or more of shopping, looking, browsing, thinking, and much hemming and hawing, I ordered fabric to MAKE a diaper bag. I have officially lost my mind.

7. I have two UPS packages coming today. One is a stroller and the other is clothes. These are all for the baby that will not actually come but will remain lodged in my uterus until the end of time.

8. Why are all words associated with reproduction weird? Uterus. It's a weird word. I could give more examples, but I'll just leave it at that.

9. I'm glad Paul was able to learn to be content in every situation and all, but he was never 39 weeks pregnant.

10. Why, yes, I would like some cheese.

Jumping off

2012-01-10T09:32:00.000-06:00

I'm currently writing some short stories to be published in an e-book anthology later this spring. Can I tell you how much that terrifies me?

"What?" you say. "You're terrified?!? Don't you mean 'ecstatic,' 'excited,' 'thrilled?'"

And of course I'm all of these things, too. But the overwhelming feeling is a bit of terror. And, really, I shouldn't say this out loud because my co-authors read my blog and I don't want to freak them out. (Hi, ladies!) And, geez, isn't this something I've wanted to do for years? For my whole life? I've wanted to write stories and have other people read them, and, hey, if they want to pay to read them, all the better!

So, yes, I'm excited. I'm ecstatic. I'm thrilled. But I'm also scared to death that I'm just not good enough. I'm scared that my stories will be boring, that my writing will be paltry, that my end results will be mediocre. Or even bad.

I'm afraid I will let my co-authors down. I'm afraid they will, across the internet miles, look askance at each other and say, "Oh, erm, yeah . . . these stories of yours are . . . ummm . . . ."

I'm afraid.

But I'm also realizing the fear is part of the process. With any good thing, with any passion, comes the risk of losing it, of failing at it. The risk, the half-crazy leap of faith it takes to accomplish this thing, is part of why we call it a 'dream.' If it were easy or risk-free, it would just be a commonplace task. Just as these words I read in the comment section of this post say, "It takes both risk and failure to define an artist." After all, what good is my art if I only keep it to myself? What good is my dream of writing if I never do anything with it? I have to take some risk to realize my dream, and I may fail a bit along the way. And that's okay, as long as I pick myself up, dust myself off, and keep going.

And the first big hurdle is over. I have ideas for all three of my stories, which will actually be expansions of some flash fiction I've already written. I have the characters already, an idea of who they are and what they struggle with. I have a driving theme, and I even have more than 2000 words on one story, 1300 words of which were written just the other night. Oh, NaNoWriMo, how well you prepared me!

So I keep repeating my mantra: "Write first, edit later. Write first, edit later. Write first." Because those words break down the mammoth, scary, unknown aspect of this project into two very tangible, very achievable goals. Because writing? I can do that. I can get the words on the page. And then, if they don't sound good at first or they ramble or if they're lacking, I can edit them. Magic. And reminding myself of this helps to beat back the panic. "Write first, edit later." I can do that.

Hey, guess what? I'm going to have some stories published. Doesn't that just give you goosebumps?

O Holy Night

2011-12-26T12:12:00.002-06:00

Thanks to Maria for sharing! This is Halle (12) closing out the church Christmas recital with "O Holy Night."

P.S. For those of you who thought we were part of a home church--we are. This is a building we rented out for the night.

Right here, right now

2011-12-13T13:05:00.001-06:00

I've sat here for a good 15 minutes debating whether to blog all the thoughts swirling in my head. Isn't that silly? But such is the state of my brain these days. Incapacitated by little decisions.

It's a total coincidence that my last two posts (including this one) have been inspired by Emily Freeman. But they have and that's just the way it is. In today's post, Emily said, "there is a distinct difference between knowing the importance of being with what’s real and actually being brave enough to resist reaching for what I wish to be."

I live in a constant state of waiting these days. Most of it is centered around the fact that I'm 8 months pregnant. Every day is a countdown to when this baby will be born. I'm so tired of being pregnant. I don't intend to complain throughout this entire post, but I am truly done with being pregnant. Yes, it's always fun to feel him move, but the list of non-fun things is very, very long. I'm just done, and so I look forward to labor and delivery not just so we can meet this new little one--and after all, isn't that the ultimate point?--but also just so I will never have to be pregnant ever again. Ever. I've always enjoyed pregnancy. This last time is a bit of an exception. C'est la vie.

There is a lot of other waiting right now--house projects I can't work on (because I'm pregnant); projects I can work on but not right now (whether this minute, or this day, or this week); the plan to buy a new house in the next year; and more, much more.

And there is the emotional morass I constantly deal with. I haven't decided if it's due to depression, lack of sleep, or pregnancy hormones; let's just split it three ways and call it a day. But it really doesn't matter what the cause is, because I still have to deal with it. And so I wait to see if that will get better, too.

But what Emily says puts words to the thought I've been struggling with, and the thought I will likely continue to struggle with: all of this waiting, all of this emotional tension, is just something I have to live with. It IS life. It's one thing to say it, even to KNOW it, and to actually do it. I want to whine. I want to imagine myself away. I want to do something else, darn it. I want to escape.

But to just be, to just live my life as it's happening right now, regardless of whether it is what I want it to be--that's a concept I'm wrestling with. (Just to be clear, I'm not talking about settling, but about appreciating what is.) Because "life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." The living out of that understanding is hard.

So I take the advice and choose to see what is good, what is right, what is my life right now. Like Halle placing 2nd in History Fair after weeks and weeks of research and reminders to get her butt in gear and yelling and shopping and cutting and gluing and a bit more yelling and struggling to get this 12-year-old to do her own work. It's done, and it's good, and the process was, I'm believing, worth it. Especially when I hear about another History Fair situation in which a teacher and her husband are helping students do their project. MY child will know what it is to do the work--hard work--and to do it right. In the midst of all the things I don't necessarily do right as a parent, I'm taking the moral victory here. This year I refused to help Halle any more than was absolutely necessary. She noticed it, too, and she did not like having to work as hard as she did. But she did it.

And the Christmas recital last night--where I originally intended to record my children's performances, but where we ended up taking pictures instead--my kids did really, really well. Halle played a duet with another flute player, and closed the night with a lovely solo of "O Holy Night." Chloe sang "Silent Night," accompanied by her sister, and she sang it well. And Noah read a poem in which you could understand (almost) every word. They each had minor moments of mishap--a flubbed note, a forgotten word, a word misread--but each of them recovered beautifully. And I'm just as proud of that as I am of how well they did the rest of the time.

It is good for me to notice these things, to record them, to give thanks for them. The are many things to look forward to in the future. But I don't want to miss--or not appreciate or wish away--what is happening right now.

a breathing soul

2011-11-07T11:36:00.001-06:00

"The feelings are real, but they are based on something that isn’t. Shadows. Remnants. Untruths. That’s what it’s like to hear a lie in your head.

We carry around those fragments of untruth with us everyday. And when things happen all in a row, it dislodges the crazy and even though we know the truth, the lie feels more true at the time. We have to choose what we’ll believe, then. It doesn’t feel very romantic or mystical to say it that way, choose what you’ll believe. But I do believe we have a choice, even when it all goes wrong."

--Emily Freeman, Chatting at the Sky

At the end of this post, Emily asks what unleashes our crazy. And I'd have to say, Life. The same things that unleashed Emily's crazy--laundry piled up, dirty baseboards, and then, that proverbial straw--that's what bowls me over EVERY TIME.

As the song says, "She can handle any tragedy that happens, but not little things like this." I can deal with the cancer, the sick babies of friends. Certainly it affects me. It saddens me, and I worry and pray and think on these things. The truly hard stuff of life contributes to the emotional thinness.

But nothing knocks me flat like when my 12-year-old is a total butt after I've just done something nice for her. Or there's no milk. Or, perpetually, when I am not sure what to wear to work. Or, worse--when all of those things happen in one day.

In counseling we've talked about catastrophizing--when I take a little thing and make it much more of a big deal than it really is. And I know I do that to a point. I mean, really, what's the worst that could happen with no milk? I eat something other than cereal. And not having milk is not equivalent to cancer; I understand that. But it's the pile-up that gets me. It's this, on top of that, on top of this, and it all just crashes down and leaves me overwhelmed and incapacitated.

And did I mention I'm pregnant? I told Halle the other day that I'm dealing with all the same hormonal stuff right now that she is. So there.

My triggers are the stuff of life. And that's what my depression looks like. Struggling to deal with the little things, to make the choice to believe truth, to gain some perspective and reign in the anger/tears/frustration/tiredness.

To breathe. Just to breathe in the midst of the crazy. But I think I'm slowly learning how to do that--and how to pick up the pieces when I don't.

Not quite

2011-10-10T13:23:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I awoke to temperatures in the mid-60s and torrential rain. It was so incredibly lovely.

Until I went into my room to get dressed so I could go sit on the porch and enjoy the incredible loveliness and discovered that our roof was leaking.

Water was steadily drip-drip-dripping through the roof, into the attic, through the insulation, and into the ceiling fan in our bedroom.

There was a small hole in the roof. We had a pretty large branch fall on the roof a couple of months ago, but we never saw any damage. It turns out part of the branch punctured the roof, broke off, and left a small part of itself lodged in the roof.

The good news is that the hole in the roof wasn't that big, and other than the ceiling fan, which was already old and funky, nothing was damaged other than our ceiling. Also, the roof repair shouldn't cost too much.

The bad news is that we're really going to need to replace the ceiling--or at least large parts of the ceiling--in our bedroom. Yesterday's leak, when considered along with a separate spot where our water heater leaked earlier this year, means we now have two large places with water damage. That repair will probably be relatively costly and inconvenient.

The neutral-to-bad news is that my lovely, rainy, cool, cloudy fall day was just kind of ruined. I'm very grateful we got the rain--almost 6 inches in some places! And I was very glad for the cooler weather. But the little boost I was expecting from the day--the boost that I experienced for all of 1.5 minutes--was rather dampened (ahem) by all the resulting inconveniences.

Boo. And *sigh*.

Fall. That's all.

2011-09-29T10:49:00.000-05:00

Today has the distinct possibility of being the 90th day this year of temperatures 100 degrees or higher in Waco. This blows the old record of 63 days out of the water. What's more, those high temps started far sooner than usual, beginning in early June. And 29 of our days this year were temps of 105 or higher.

I've griped about the weather a lot on Facebook. I've humphed and whined and sighed. It's been really, really hot. And to top it off, it's also dry. Really, really dry. We haven't received even half of our normal rainfall levels this year. According to the Lower Colorado River Authority, "The 11 months from October 2010 through August 2011 have been the driest for that 11-month period in Texas since 1895, when the state began keeping rainfall records. This summer in Texas has been the hottest in the country's history, according to the National Weather Service."

"Hot" and "dry" just don't seem strong enough words.

I've often described this summer as oppressive. It's actually wearing me down. The little glimpses of fall we've had in the past weeks almost seem to make it worse. We'll have a glorious day with highs in the mid-80s, but then days like today, where the high is supposed to be 100.

But it's more than just the physical discomfort that I refer to when I say this season has been oppressive. Everywhere I look there's just dry crispiness. And not the good kind of crisp, with a bite of cold and the smell of fires in the chimneys, the blustery wind and the multi-colored leaves. Our crispy leaves and grass are just dry and dead. Brown and blah. It's soul-crushing. Okay, maybe "crushing" is too harsh a word. But it's draining. It's . . . oppressive.

I know people who live (or have lived) up north who deal with Seasonal Affective Disorder. Typically this disorder is associated with winter, with gray skies, hibernation, and lack of sunlight. But, my goodness, I think I have a bit of SAD.

I really like the outdoors. I'm not a hiker or biker or trail-walker, especially not right now, but I miss savoring the sun and sky, the trees and leaves and green grass. I'm seeing pictures of fall in other places around the country, and I'm jealous. Truly, deeply jealous. I actually have to look away.

My soul longs for coolness, freshness, rain. I need a deep breath of relief from this summer. I don't know if the arrival of fall will actually lift this weight--especially since the drought is predicted to worsen before spring--but I'm willing to bet it will help.

I will get a nice preview this weekend as I fly to Denver for a work conference. Highs are supposed to be in the low 80s (10 degrees higher than what was being forecast this time last week; I'm a little bummed), but with lows in the 50s and those gorgeous Rocky Mountains, I'm really looking forward to it.

The return to Texas will be the kicker, just as it was when we returned from the fabulous Michigan weather this summer.

Oh, fall. Come to me soon.

I am a bus driver

2011-09-28T10:57:00.000-05:00

(I needn't have feared for my blogging streak. Stupid Waco drivers live so that I will have something to write about.)

There is a two-lane driveway that runs around Noah's school; this is how we drop him off and pick him up every day. At the end of the driveway is a light. The left lane turns left at the light; the right lane turns right.

This morning, I ended up behind a bus who, for the purposes of this post, will be a "who" and not a "that." This bus began our little journey in the left lane (where I was), moving partially into the right lane to drop off her two students, both of whom took their sweet little first-through-fourth-grade time getting of of said bus. And then, instead of straightening out and picking a lane, the bus continued to drive forward to the light, staying smack in the middle of the two lanes. Not right. Not left. Smack in the middle.

But such is life, right? No blinker, taking up two lanes, whatever. What's the worst that can happen? The light turns green, the bus turns, and maybe it takes us a little longer to get through, but it's just a hiccup in the morning.

Except the light didn't turn green.

Cars passed by on the main road. The crossing guard helped more little munchkins cross the street. The light stayed red. The minutes ticked by, and I began to wonder: was the light ever going to change? And more importantly, was the bus ever going to move?

The cars in front of me couldn't get around the bus. Cars were stacking up behind me, and still the bus sat, resolute. Unmoving. A mountain of yellow irritation, blocking my way to the great world beyond the driveway.

And so, after several minutes, I honked. I was sure to wave at the lady in front of me to let her know I wasn't honking at her, I was honking at the bus.

Nothing.

Red light. Immovable yellow.

I honked a little more. I mean, really, I had two more kids to drop off. And work to get to. And, eventually, a life to live. I'm all for obeying the law, but obviously something was wrong with the light. It's happened before, and I figured anyone would eventually get tired of sitting at an obviously-broken red light and just go. There were several lulls in the traffic large enough for a bus to squeeze in.

Nope, not this bus. I considered getting out of the car and asking the bus to move. But I knew as soon as I did, the light would turn green and I'd have to jog my little pregnant self back to my car. And surely--surely--the light would change or the bus would go. It had to happen at some point.

But it didn't. Ten full minutes we sat at that light, and my disbelief grew. Really? Really, bus? Not gonna go? Seriously?

So I put the car in park and got out.

I walked to the bus. She saw me coming and opened her window.

"Hi. I know the light is red, but none of us can get around you, so is there any way you can go?" I asked in a truly polite tone. Just curious. Just in case you forgot we're all back there, waiting on you and the obviously-broken light.

She barely looked at me. "I can't go. The light is red." Her tone was not as truly polite.

"Well, yes, I know the light is red, it's just that there are, like, 20 cars backing up here. I'm pretty sure the light isn't working . . ."

"The light is RED. I CAN'T go." Her tone was definitively not polite at this point. And she still wasn't looking at me. My incredulity grew once again. How dense and inconsiderate could we be? And yet, I wanted to mollify her.

"I'm not trying to gripe at you, it's just that . . . we can't sit here all day, and none of us can get around you." Surely she would see logic at some point. Surely I could make her understand.

I wanted to make snarky comments about how some of us had places to be. I wanted to inform her how inconsiderate it was to take up both lanes. I wanted to ask existential questions like, "What if the light NEVER turns green? Will you allow us out for food and water?" I more practically considered seeing if she would compromise at all--perhaps agree to back up and move into one lane if I could make room for her to do so? After all, I turned around a mile of cars on a Detroit freeway once.

What, I never told you that story?

Once, on the way to visit my Memaw, Aaron, the girls, and I got stuck on I-90 going through downtown Detroit. There was construction somewhere ahead, and we were on a very long stretch of entrance ramp that was only one lane wide. We were at a standstill for over an hour. People were actually walking around, talking to each other. Maybe some people were even playing cards? This was where Aaron learned for the first time that Yankees aren't all rude and belligerent as he'd been led to believe. But this was also before we had cell phones. Word came down the line of cars that there was no way to move ahead, and there was a long, immobile line of cars behind us, with more and more cars exiting onto this ramp every minute. There we were, stuck on a freeway in downtown Detroit, late in the afternoon of our second day of driving, with no prospect of going anywhere for an indefinite amount of time.

"We need to get everyone to back up and turn around," I told Aaron. "We'll be here forever."

"How are you going to do that?" he asked.

"We'll ask them to back up," I replied.

And so we did.

I walked to the cars behind us, where people were gathered around shooting the breeze, and relayed the information about how the road was blocked as far as the eye could see.

"Will you guys help me see if we can get people to back up?" They responded heartily that they would.

So we worked our way backwards down the line of cars, letting them know what was going on. Word spread quickly, and within about five minutes, the last car on the ramp was backing up, turning around, going the other direction on the obviously one-way road so that we could all get out of this jam. Within about ten minutes, our family had gotten back onto the main road and we took another route to Memaw's house and were there in time for dinner.

So, surely, if it came to it, I could get a line of cars in a school driveway to back up so that the stupid, stupid bus could straighten herself out so we could all go around her. Yes, we'd be bending the law in running that red light, but, hey, desperate times and all that.

And there are acceptable times to run a red light.

But just about that time, the inevitable happened.

"The light is green," she informed me. "You need to get back in your car." I'm sure she took great delight in that last part.

Sure enough, the light had finally changed. So I jogged my little pregnant self back to my car, got back in, and made it through the light just as it turned yellow.

Just another hiccup in the morning.

September

2011-09-26T16:46:00.001-05:00

I used to worry about living a small life. I stayed home with children, and I was surrounded by children, and often the only people I talked to all day long were children. This blog was a huge part of my sanity during those days because I could talk to you, most of whom are not children.

And I loved staying home--never regretted a single moment of it--but I worried that my life was too small. It was so focused on childcare and . . . children. And the house. Going back to school helped with that--I could wax rhapsodic about how wonderful that experience was for me, how transformative and beneficial and educational, in both the traditional and personal senses. And then I got a job, and the concern of living a small life sort of went away. I also developed depression and didn't care if my life was small. Heck, the smaller, the better.

But now, after around 3 years in the workforce (never mind the hiatus wherein I was semi-unemployed), I'm beginning to wonder if my life is too small again.

There's so much I want to say on this, and so much I want to talk to you about, but this is a public blog, worldwide web and all that, and so I feel limited because, for once in my life, I don't want to say too much.

There's a lot tumbling around in this little head of mine about work, and purpose, and family, and dreams, and oughts, and the large, large world out there. About creativity and contentment. About houses and babies. About time and influence and how it all comes together in my life.

Which, goodness gracious, will be changing quite drastically in the next few months. I'm six months pregnant, and although it seems like FOREVER until January, I know it's not.

So much has changed since this time last year, so much is drastically different from what I could ever have imagined. And yet I find myself in a similar emotional fall season. (If only the ACTUAL fall season would show up. Does it exist in Texas anymore? I'm beginning to doubt.)

This is maddeningly vague, I know, but I had to say something. I had to write.

(And as I pointed out to someone just yesterday, I've managed to blog at least once every month for the past 6 years. That astounds me because I'm so often inconsistent in things, and it's never been intentional, until today. September is drawing to a close, and I didn't want to break the streak.)

Right out of my mouth

2011-08-26T16:46:00.002-05:00

"I can't.

If there were ever two words to describe what depression feels like."

Heather Armstrong, dooce.com

*I'm actually doing pretty well right now, but. . . wow. I couldn't agree more.

Grace

2011-08-24T09:12:00.002-05:00

"Our life is always speaking, but we rarely have the courage to listen. What are those things, it says, that make you come alive? Good girls are afraid of those questions – afraid because what if those things our life speaks of are not the things I think I’m supposed to be doing? We stay busy should-ing and ought-ing and trying to do life right."

--Emily Freeman

Almost. . . and then some

2011-08-05T12:34:00.005-05:00

A strange thought process made me think of some of the almost's in my life:

I *almost* went to this really cool Christian conference in L.A. in 1993 or '94. Angie and I won fourth place in a national writing contest for a teen magazine (ironic and prophetic that it was writing and not singing, hey Ang?). Our registration was paid for, but our travel was not, so we weren't able to go. Bonus: we got to see our names in print in a national publication.

I was *almost* on the ballot as a homecoming queen nominee my senior year. This really tall band nerd--okay, drummer--nominated me for the Key Club representative, and somehow the rest of the club backed him up. But the morning the male representative and I showed up at the pep rally to parade around with the nominees from other campus organizations, we learned that our Key Club sponsor had failed to pay the required fee, and so my name never made it to the ballot. Bonus one: my dad got really, really mad (which is kind of a big deal) and griped the sponsor out. She apologized to me. Bonus two: turns out the drummer had a crush on me, so I married him.

I *almost* got to see Michael Jordan play for the Chicago Bulls in 1997. Our high school orchestra (which I was not a part of) was going on a Spring Break trip to Chicago and the teacher asked my friend and I if we wanted to come with them because we were in his music theory class with a bunch of orchestra nerds. Unfortunately, the funding wasn't there, and so neither were we. Bonus: I got to go to the Ft. Worth water gardens instead (?).

I was *almost* a rich and famous Christian musician. I used to be in this trio with my two best friends, and we sang pretty darn well, especially together. We sang at church, and then at some youth rallies and camps, and then had a few paying gigs. We even got a group of well-respected, intelligent pastors and business men to meet with us as an advisory board and talk about ways we could break into the biz. And then life happened and the trio broke up. Bonus: I don't have to worry about paparazzi.

So with all of the almost, what have I actually done?

Well, like I said, I married the drummer, and it turns out he's my best friend and I like him a lot and think he's really cute.

And then we had some kids. And then some more kids. And the kids just keep coming. And they're all pretty cute so far, too, and we like them pretty well.

And I wrote a novel.

And I earned a B.A. in English.

And I went to Europe.

And I have some pretty awesome friends and family.

So maybe I *almost* a lot. But I'll take the *actually* any day.

What's the opposite of a naysayer?

2011-07-20T16:25:00.004-05:00

Hey, did you guys know I'm a Harry Potter fan?

I just recently saw the eighth movie, and it was brilliant. As with all the other movies, and as with any movie based on a book, I have my little quibbles here and there. But overall, it was fantastic. It pulled all the same heartstrings as the book, and I cried just as much at the movie as I did with the book, pregnancy hormones notwithstanding.

And, like my friend, Angie, I've been reading about all things Harry Potter lately. I've looked at photographs of the premieres, watched behind-the-scenes videos, read interviews with the actors, read articles and reviews. I've even, as a means of scratching an itch and as a means of kicking off my vacation, begun re-reading the books. Or, rather, re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-reading the books. (That is not necessarily a definitive number of re's.)

And after reading another few articles today, I was struck by something. We all know about the criticism put forth by certain people (ahem) that these books and movies are evil, that they are about witchcraft and the occult and are therefore bad. I remember having this conversation with someone close to a decade ago, and it was all I could do not to laugh. I honestly thought she was joking at first.

Oh, if only.

My urge to laugh has faded, and I'm now left with an eye-rolling sigh. I won't go into what I believe is the ridiculousness of these claims: how the books are obviously fantasy and deal with fantastical magic, nothing at all like real-life occult; or how struck I am by the similarities between the magic in these books and the beloved Chronicles of Narnia, and, no, it does not make one whit of difference what the intentions or religious beliefs of the respective authors are--if you claim magic is bad, then it's bad, no matter the author's background. I won't go into the obvious Christ-like themes in HP, or the power of sacrificial love that overcomes evil and death. I won't go into all that.

I'll just say that the argument I've heard most often is that people will be drawn into the occult because of Harry Potter. People will be negatively influenced in dark spiritual ways. And yet, in all of my reading (and it has been extensive), I've found the exact opposite to be true. I've heard of no instances of people joining the occult or being drawn to darkness because of these stories. Sure, it may be out there, but that's just not the normal result. Instead, I've read and heard of dozens of instances of people being drawn to the Lord, knowing him or knowing him better, because of these stories. People are drawn to truth and light, and isn't that the real test? Not how do certain people *think* these stories will influence culture, but how have the stories *actually* influenced culture? People like those who wrote in to John Granger to tell how these books had affected them, people like Andrew Peterson, even people like Danielle Elizabeth Tumminio have all experienced a draw toward God, not away from him.

The results are in, folks. After more than a decade, the influence of these stories can clearly be seen. For the excellence of writing; for the cleverness in turns of phrase; for the demonstrations of friendship, loyalty, and love; for the brilliant depth and breadth of the story; for the enduring characters and places; for the pure, beautiful artistry of it all; and, yes, for the way my eyes have been opened even a little more to Truth, I am a die-hard Harry Potter fan.

Zepheniah

2011-06-27T10:33:00.002-05:00

He will take great delight in you;

he'll calm you with his love

and delight you with his songs.

Zeph. 3:17

Expecting

2011-06-13T13:46:00.000-05:00

It's happened before, the "no sooner have I said," and so I shouldn't be surprised that's it's happening again.

For the first 6 months of this year, I felt great. But, for reasons I will discuss below, I have gone off of my antidepressant. I didn't think it would be a big deal, because, as I said, I'd been doing so well for quite a while.

But after a couple of weeks off the meds, I can definitely feel the depression lurking beneath the surface. I can feel the anxiety, the stretched-ness, the occasional sense of falling. It's not bad, really, not nearly as bad as I know it can be. It's still manageable, still containable. But I'm aware of the monster that I thought was pretty much gone, and that's frustrating. Don't misunderstand; I'm not in the bad place. I'm just very aware that the bad place still exists.

And so it's very good that I'm able to be excited about the reason for going off the medication. You see, I'm pregnant.

To answer your question, NO, it was not planned, not at all, not one of the four (!) have been planned. But this one was the most actively planned against, so it was very much a shock. I'm about 8 weeks along, and I feel very gross most of the time, even aside from the emotional issues. So all of it is wearing on me right now.

It's a bit of an endurance race until I can get to the second trimester and see how much of this is depression-related, how much is nausea/fatigue-related. Moreover, what can I live with, and, really, what can be done about it while I'm pregnant? I know I have some options, but we also want to be very careful (of course) about how we approach it all.

So while I should be gushing about pregnancy--and, really, I am excited about it--between the constant nausea, the fatigue, and the shadow of depression, all I can do right now is make it day to day.

Halle got baptized

2011-05-22T22:49:00.003-05:00

I could tell you all about it, but instead I'll just link to Rishi's post, here. It's a great summary.

Blooming

2011-05-16T11:47:00.002-05:00

** A note about blogging. It's fascinating to me how much of a post comes only in the midst of writing. So much of what I've written below (or ever), I hadn't fully expressed--and more, I didn't really know--until I wrote it down. There are truths I've stumbled upon only as I've written them, connections I've made only as I've sought to find the right words. As King says, "To know, I have to write." (That one is in the collage.) And so blogging is about much more than just recording my life and letting you guys in on it. It is reflecting and it is understanding; it is about letting myself in on it, too.

Over the past few years, I've made a few collages. There was one I made right after I began school in 2007. I love how the theme--inspired by the time of year--also fit with that time of my life. After all, isn't fall the time of going back to school? A time of change? A time of paradox--bright colors mixed with a bit of dying. And that's just what that time was. Excitement, fear, courage, change. And, of course, looking back now, I also know it was a time leading into the winter. Oh, the winter.

You know all about the winter. I've documented it in several places. There was a winter collage, too. I made it in December 2009, I believe, and its character is very well summed up in this post from the same time. The winter was hard. Stress, depression, soul-aching weariness, unemployment. It was bleak at times, but there was also beauty there. What profound grace I experienced in the winter, and I did find that blessed quiet for my tired soul. And once more, looking back, I know it was the time leading in to the spring.

And do you remember me looking for the spring? Waiting for the flowers to bloom?

Ironically, they never did. But, oh, spring has come anyway.

Just after I began my job in January, I started to think about whether I should make a spring collage. I was reflecting on my seasonal collection and trying to find an outlet for what the spring was looking and feeling like. But as I began to decorate my office--with the lampshade and the collages--I realized those projects are my spring collage. Bright colors; flowers; happy, inspirational, personal quotes that speak to my faith, my writing, where I'm at, and where I'm going. And it is such an exciting place, such an exciting season, that I am displaying it for all to see.

And as much as I thought it would hurt my heart to claim this verse because of the history it represents (the one that, even as I first typed this four months ago brought tears to my eyes), there is a double significance because of that history. Even out of that desert comes blooming. And so, four months later, there are no tears, only redemption, just as was promised: The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom. Isaiah 35:1 (That one made it on the collage, too.)

Welcome, spring. It's so good to see you.

Guestin'

2011-05-09T13:22:00.002-05:00

Come see my guest post on my friend Karin Kaufman's blog! I talk about faith and writing. I hope you'll be encouraged to make art!

My office

2011-04-30T21:23:00.003-05:00

And, bonus: the completed collage project! As you may remember, my collage project was inspired by this artwork from Valerie Roybal:

So first, the completed collages:

I cut strips from Real Simple magazines; found quotes from blogs, books, songs, and Scripture; bought 16x20 canvas frames (which you can't see) from Hobby Lobby (2 for $8); printed the quotes on cardstock; glued everything on the canvas with Mod Podge (several layers for good measure); sprayed it with a clear acrylic coat (spraypaint); and framed with open frames also bought from Hobby Lobby (2 for $35). Total cost: $50 for two large, framed, custom pieces of art. Simple, cheap, and fun. (Want one? I'll totally take requests.)

The quotes I used (there's a lot of 'em; feel free to skip down):

Write first, Edit later (me)

She was on her way (Jodi Hill)

Life isn't a support system for art. It's the other way around. (Stephen King)

I know the plans I have for you. (Jeremiah/God)

If you can do it for joy, you can do it forever. (King)

Language is the blood of the soul, into which thoughts run and out of which they grow. (Oliver Wendell Holmes)

the God of glory thunders (David?/God)

And is the juice and the joints and the motion of life (Don Chaffer of the band Waterdeep)

You've made all my deserts into gardens; you've made all my ashes into beauty (Isaiah/God/Waterdeep)

the Self escaping into the open (E.B. White)

It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. (Dumbledore/J.K. Rowling)

Now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before. (C.S. Lewis)

you need to live the art, and then you need to keep on making it. (Emily Freeman)

You may not be the first to say it, but your saying it may be the first time we hear. (Freeman)

Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her. (Elizabeth/God)

Dreams have nuts and bolts, too. If they didn't, then surely they would fall apart. (Freeman)

In your presence, God, I'm completely satisfied. (Phil Wickham)

We'll tip our glasses to the Host who used to look so hazy (Waterdeep)

we are filled with the good things of your house (David/God)

To know, I have to write. (King)

The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom. (Isaiah/God)

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. (Hebrews/God)

The job of fiction is to find the truth inside the story's web of lies. (King)

And here they are in the office with a bit of lampshade thrown in for color comparison:

The office, from left to right:

This wall will sport a collection of what I like to call "scroll-y metal artwork." The current collection is below (plus I have another colored, coaster-looking one--octagonal, can't remember the color--and two more decorative crosses of different sizes). I will most likely spraypaint the white one, just not sure what color yet, and I'll add a few more pieces:

The picture frames on my hutch (I need a picture of my mother!):

The middle shelf has a lot of the things I collected while working for the Modern Foreign Language department. Professors would bring us (office staff) gifts from their travels abroad. The blue fan is from Japan, the green one is from Spain; the bowl is from Kenya (and smells like pepper, in a good way); the brown coin purse is from Spain and the little Eiffel Tower I brought back from Paris. The little black box is from Russia, but it's from a friend of my mom's (not a prof). The pictures were taken by Baylor students who studied abroad; both are from Paris. I definitely need more books. I'm planning to hit up the used book store for some adult and children's classics. I took as many books from home as I dared; I can only spare so many!

(The lamp!)

(My diploma!)

I was originally going to choose a double matte: undetermined color around the diploma, off-white everywhere else. But Aaron 1) asked what the school colors were (blue and white) to help me choose a color, and 2) convinced me to go with one all-navy matte. I'm so glad. I really like the way it looks, and it also goes well with the colorful theme of the office.

I'll post pictures (at some point; you know me) of the completed scroll-y metal artwork wall. I've had a heck of a time finding pieces, but so far everything has come from Hobby Lobby. I love that place.

I'm so pleased with how everything has turned out so far. For an office without a window, it still manages to be cheerful, and it speaks very loudly of me.

Kitchen, before and after

2011-04-29T21:30:00.013-05:00

Oh, yeah. I was going to show you my kitchen.

I painted the kitchen walls last summer (good grief, that long ago?) during the time of unemployment. (Oh, and by the way, Waco ISD just laid off 200 teachers, with most, if not all of them, being 1st and 2nd years. Mmm-hmm. Would've been unemployed again. Truly, God is faithful.)

The plan was to paint the cabinets around the same time. But, you know, life happens. So it didn't get done until Spring Break. And then I didn't get around to posting the pictures until now. So without further ado, the kitchen before:

Bleh. Just really bleh. The only good thing about the kitchen was the fabulous pantry my husband built a few years ago:

The during, which I like to call Inadvertent Americana:

Seriously, I was NOT going for a red-white-and-blue thing. It just happened.

And the partially after (some day shots, some night shots):

(I've had these prints since we lived in Tyler 8 years ago, and they are the inspiration for the color.)

Old countertop appliance arrangement:

New arrangement:

The best shot of the color of the cabinets, which is barely off-white (pearl essence, to be exact):

Old arrangement:

New arrangement:

And, yes, that's a new fridge you see up there. The old one had started needing to be defrosted practically bi-monthly, which is a practical impossibility in our house. But this beauty? On sale, 18 months same as cash? Yes, please.

Close-up of the knobs:

Due to an electrical peculiarity (old house and all), we haven't been able to hang the new lights yet, but this is what they look like:

I also plan to replace the sink (stainless instead of the current ceramic), backsplash (beadboard painted the same color as the cabinets), countertops:

(maybe??? I had one picked out at Lowes, but they discontinued. This is the closest I could find tonight)

and linoleum.

The time frame on all that it TBD, but I'm already very pleased with the facelift.

Oh! I almost forgot the chairs:

It's very hard for me to get a shot that shows how truly the reds match. And really, I'm not typically a matchy-matchy person, but I LOVE how this fabric ties in the teal/turquoise/aqua color from the living room and the red in the kitchen.

Next up: my office!

Music=Soul Food

2011-04-20T10:20:00.003-05:00

Finding the right song for the moment is sort of like putting together a puzzle.

Sometimes you walk in the room, see the piece, and fit it right in. Seamless. Easy. Brilliant.

And sometimes you pick piece after piece, turning, turning, trying.

Until finally, it clicks, and the picture is that much clearer.

Haute Couture

2011-04-07T18:18:00.005-05:00

The thing I spend the most time worrying about for work is not appointments, or schedules, or deadlines, or budgets. Heck, I don't even deal with budgets anymore. The thing I worry about most for work is What to Wear.

At the depths of the depression, the thought of What to Wear and the effort it was going to take to get it clean was often overwhelming to me and could send me into a tailspin. There were even a couple of days I called in to work because I just couldn't deal with it.

Things are better now, but I still spend quite a bit of time figuring out what will look best, feel best, coordinate, and most importantly, be clean. Or at least look and smell clean-ish. I've finally made a habit of finding and laying out my clothing the night before (and, for the most part, having my children do the same). It has made our mornings significantly better.

Still, the first thing I do when coming home is to peel off all of that work wear--all that planning and ironing and coordinating and accessorizing. I go from patent leather and pinstripes, ruffled sweaters and coordinating camisoles, jangling jewelry and coiffed hair, to paint-stained comfy pants, holey shirts, and a ponytail in less than a minute flat.

Deconstructing the facade. I look forward to it every day.

For the writers

2011-04-07T15:16:00.003-05:00

And, really, for everyone else, too.

I was reading this week's Chronicle of Higher Education and the Chronicle Review, because I'm in academe, don't you know, and I'm all smart and stuff.

In reading the Review, I ran across some gems of writing instruction and inspiration from Gina Barreca, professor of English and feminist theory at the University of Connecticut:

The perfect is the enemy of the good. You can rewrite, you can revise, you can refine, but the first thing you have to do is write. Of course what you write is going to be imperfect. The fun part, remember, is that what you think is good might turn out not to be (kill your darlings and all that), but more important, what you think is absolutely terrible might turn out to be a version of the most interesting idea you’ve come up with yet.

And,

Only writing counts as writing. Long discussions over dinner, reading yet another piece of research, having yet another discussion over drinks, none of this counts as writing. Don’t kid yourself. Your dream-self, your cats, your dog, your spouse, your colleagues, your writing group, and your friends: None of them can write your book for you. Only you can do it. That’s the hard part, and that’s what’s great, and that’s what you need to do. Go on, then; get started.

WARNING

2011-03-24T21:32:00.003-05:00

I've been making a few changes around here, as you may have noticed. One of those changes has been to update my blogroll. As a result, I hereby give you notice:

If you haven't posted a blog in 2 years (or close to it), I may soon delete you from my blogroll. It's not personal. It's just business. (Name that movie.) (Now see if you can name the original movie.)

Just wanted to let you know.

Remembering

2011-03-18T10:42:00.003-05:00

From an email my Aunt Jo Ellen sent to the family this morning:

Happy Birthday to you,

Happy Birrrrrrrthday, Dear Memaw,

You would be 92!

Me again: This sweet reminder of my Memaw's birthday made me smile and cry all at the same time. I re-read the post I linked to above, and remembered. I miss Memaw, and I look forward to the day I can see her again.

I blog, therefore I am

2011-03-11T23:49:00.003-06:00

*I'm sure I've posted something similar to this before, but I'm not going to go looking for it now.

I'm so glad I have a blog. I have never, ever in my life had a journal for nearly this long. I kept a diary for all of two weeks when I was in fifth grade, and it still sits on my bookshelf any time I want to peruse its scarce pages. I've had the same journal for about 4 or 5 years now, and I return to it every once in a while. But this blog? I've kept this blog updated at least once a month since September 2005. And if you count my Xanga, which I do, I've blogged every month since May 2005. People. That is almost 6 years. Six years of my life chronicled in photos, reflections, silly things my kids said, silly things I've said. Six years of writing; six years of life.

I've just spent the last several hours reading through my blog. I laughed; I cried; it moved me, Bob. What a great thing.

I'm so glad I blog. I'm currently working on a guest post about faith and writing, and it's really good to remember and understand once more why I love this thing.

Lampshade

2011-02-25T17:56:00.015-06:00

It's done! And after spending the time and effort to make this lampshade, I completely understand why Anthropologie charges $128. Step-by-step walkthrough/instructions follow.

I started by blowing up and printing the various pictures of the lampshade found on the Anthropologie site. Some of the flowers had to be adjusted or filled in due to perspective or just because they weren't fully shown, and some had to be rotated and/or cropped, so these were hand-drawn and scanned so I would have a copy of the original. This turned out to be invaluable as I used the master flowers several times. I then cut those pieces of paper and used them as patterns to cut out my fabric. This part of the project was probably the most fun as I picked which fabrics to use where and tried to make sure I wasn't overloading one color in an area.

The next step was to attach the fabric petals to the white fabric I used for the background. Spray adhesive to the rescue! What's even better is that I already had some spray adhesive in the laundry/utility/craft room. I wrapped the white fabric around the shade and held it in place with clothespins. Then I printed another copy of each of the flowers and positioned them inside the lampshade, adjusting for proper spacing. After that, I turned on the bulb so I could see the outline of the petals through the shade.

(That's the lamp!)

(And Halle!)

Next I sprayed each fabric petal and slapped it on the white background fabric. At this point in the project, I could tell I was really going to like the finished product.

The next step was to sew the petals on. This not only attached them permanently, it will help prevent fraying (and it matched the original picture). I decided to use several different shades of thread instead of just one, but kept each flower consistent (two flowers for each color of thread, doesn't that math work out nicely?). But, oh! the sewing.

I've always downplayed my sewing skills because I mostly sew straight lines. "You made a quilt?!" people exclaim. "Yes, but it's just a bunch of straight lines," I say. This was not straight lines. There's not a straight line to be found in this project. The first few flowers were okay, but as time went on, I found myself staring at the petals, counting them, sighing at them, anything but actually sewing them.

And then my sewing machine went on the fritz. My wonderful friend, Vena, has 'fixed' the machine twice now, taking it from non-functional to workable, but I really struggled to get it to finish the job. In fact, I would have been done at least two or three weeks ago but for the problems with the sewing machine. That made an already tedious task downright frustrating and un-fun.

But Thursday night, with teeth-gritted determination, I finished the final two flowers. And, since I was on a roll, I decided to go ahead and finish the project. I ironed the fabric again, to smooth out any wrinkles from weeks of handling and from the sewing process. I had an idea of how I was going to attach the fabric to the shade, but this video really helped refine the process. (Disclaimer for the link: the twins are really annoying, and I swear, a couple times I think the blonde wants to slap the one invading her personal space, but it's great information.) Luckily I also already had fabric glue and had bought white bias tape, so I was all set. With some help from the girls, I was done in about an hour!

More pictures will follow in which I will show you the lamp and shade in their new home (my office). I'll also show you my diploma, which I finally got framed today!

*Fun fact: As I was writing this post, I began to mentally bemoan my lack of pictures to document the process. Lo and behold, when I went to upload pictures, I had documented far more than I remembered!

Waffles

2011-02-11T22:31:00.005-06:00

I'm an emotional eater.

I just got up from a chair I'd been sitting in since 6:00. The reason I got up from the chair? To get waffles.

"And in the morning, I'm making waffles!"

My darling daughters were lost (to me) for a while this afternoon. They were completely unaware that they were lost, being in the know about their whereabouts the entire time, but me? No, I had no clue.

Well, I did have a clue. I knew they were at Baylor for the History Fair Regionals. I even had lunch with them. And the last thing I said before we parted?

"Be sure to call me or text me when you're done so I'll know where to pick you up. I can meet you at my office or I can pick you up. Just be sure to call me and let me know where. You can call my cell phone, and if I don't pick up, call my office phone. Just let me know where to pick you up."

And then 5:00 came and I had no idea where they are. They had been at the museum, this much I knew. I suspected that's not where they were; I suspected they had gone to the place of origin: the SUB, which is also where we had lunch,which is also the building they were in the entirety of the day. Save the visit to the museum (with a chaperone). So I went to the SUB.

But the SUB was empty. 5:00 on a Friday afternoon empty.

That was the moment I panicked.

I'd been fighting uneasiness since 4:00, the time I had first reasonably expected a call or text. But surely I'd get one around 4:15. Maybe they'd gotten busy or distracted and forgot to call. But surely by 4:30. I'd have a call by 4:30. Could they be by themselves somewhere? I couldn't imagine the chaperones would have left the museum without them. I'd probably hear something by 4:45. Surely by 4:45. Were they waiting for me to pick them up at the museum? Wouldn't they think to call if that were the case? Could they call from the museum? What if they needed to use a pay phone? I don't think they've ever seen a pay phone. Do they even make pay phones anymore? Well definitely by 5:00. By 5:00 I'd have heard from them. They know I get off work at 5:00 and they'd call to let me know where they were. Where to pick them up. But even if they make pay phones, I don't ever think I taught them how to use a pay phone. I knew how to use a pay phone. In my day, that's how you called your mom to let her know which end of the mall to pick you up at.

After all, you had to get home somehow.

And moreover, there are two of them. If one forgot, surely the other would remember. Surely at least one of my brilliant, AP students would have the foresight to think about transportation, or the hindsight to remember the many times we'd gone over the plan. The plan where they would contact me in some way.

But when I got to the SUB at 5:15, still with no contact, and I found not a soul in sight. . .

I almost lost in there in the grand rotunda. A ball of emotion soup, frozen at the balcony of the third floor.

I had texted a friend of Chloe's around 4:30--who at that time had informed me she didn't know where Chloe was--but she (the friend) was at the award area. So I texted again: where is this mysterious award area?

Across the street from the SUB.

And so I marched--make no mistake, by this time I was marching--across the street. And as I marched, the anger appeared. I had been uneasy. I had been afraid. I had been confused and irritated. But now I was getting angry.

And there they sat, amidst a sea of children, oblivious.

When asked later what they had been thinking, why they had not called, the answer was something along the lines of "I don't know. I forgot." There was even an "I lost track of time" from the one with a watch on her left hand. "But how did you think you were going to get home?" we asked.

"I. . . don't know."

There they sat, one right next to a friend with a phone--said friend, even, who had informed me of their whereabouts--and two rows away from adult friends of ours (friends that I did not know were there).

Safe, to be sure. And completely oblivious.

There was some yelling involved when we got in the car. Yelling and tears as I expressed how afraid I had been. As I asked for an explanation as to why the explicit instructions--the oft-repeated, explicit instructions--had not been followed. And, after all, how in the world did you think you were going to get home? Forget the worry of your ever-loving mother. Were you planning on walking?

The entire thing was just emotionally draining. I still cannot grasp how both of them--BOTH OF THEM--could have overlooked this key action. It still flummoxes me. So I sat catatonic in the chair this evening, watching a week's worth of Jeopardy and a 20/20 special.

And then I ate waffles, and they were yummy, and this is why I will never be skinny.

It's my children's fault.

The job

2011-01-15T21:00:00.001-06:00

I've had a nice, long break. It's been really great, especially the past two months when I really was able to relax and enjoy it.

Not that all I did was relax, as previous posts will attest.

There was a relaxation of spirit that I just didn't have the first few months. But around October or November, we gradually stopped worrying (for the most part). I guess we'd passed through the beginning stages of grief--denial, anger, bargaining, depression--and had finally come to acceptance. We really did go through a grieving process--grief for our plan, which we were so proud of; grief for our loss of security; grief over our future and our dreams.

But as I said before, this job seems like it's going to be worth all those months of uncertainty and confusion. My new boss is relatively flexible with my arrival time, and that is huge. HUGE. That's such a psychological burden lifted. All the people in the office are friendly and helpful. I've also already met with several students, and even the situations that were a little more difficult were--dare I say it?--fun. I really enjoy every aspect of what I've done so far. I enjoy running the numbers as I review the audit and figure up how the hours stack up (done, in progress, left to do). As I told my (bookkeeper) mom, every time my numbers add up, there's that satisfaction of balancing the checkbook in Quickbooks: ching! Success! And then there's the problem-solving of figuring out which class is going to fit in the student's requirements and also keep them interested. Then there's interacting with the students themselves, which is great. I also really like the way the office organizes the appointments, with built-in time to prepare and document everything.

You guys, this seems like it's going to be really great. I'm excited about my job!

So excited, in fact, that I'm seriously considering getting my Master's. I figure if I stay in this job long enough, a Master's degree will only help me. And I get tuition remission, which is obviously a huge perk. I'm serious enough about it that I've begun to study for the GRE and am considering taking it in March, during Spring Break.

And just think. A few months ago, I couldn't wait to be done with school.

What do you say?

2011-01-12T23:00:00.004-06:00

** Updated

After the comments on my last post, I was inspired. Below are the phrases I've come up with this evening. Most of these fabulous fonts I downloaded from dafont.com (thanks for the tip, Andrea!), which is like crack for a font junkie like me.

If you have any other ideas for phrases, let me know!

Busy, busy, busy

2011-01-11T18:50:00.000-06:00

As Amanda pointed out yesterday, I have been at my new job for one full week. I have a more in-depth post I'm working on along those lines, but for now just know that I think this job is going to be worth the 7 months of unemployment. I met with my first student today and prepped for an appointment tomorrow afternoon. I'm really excited.

But for now, let's recap my most recent projects.

Aaron's quilt was a resounding success. It was a much easier (and much faster!) process than Halle's quilt, and Aaron can't stop gushing about it, which is gratifying and fun.

We also made a gingerbread house again this year, except this one had the added benefit of being pre-assembled.

And here are pictures of Chloe's History Fair project. Her group won second place for the fifth grade and is going to Regionals. I played a sizable role in assisting with the design and execution of the board, so as the project was progressing, I kept half-joking that I hoped I'd get a good grade. I did. =) (It should be noted that Halle's group won first for the sixth grade AND the school and is also going to Regionals, but I can't take any credit for that, except perhaps for passing on good genes.)

And finally, info on my upcoming projects! I have an office now, and so that means I also get to decorate it. I spent my first night after work rummaging through my house looking for books and knick-knacks to put on my bookshelves. I took an entire box of stuff, but it only filled about three shelves (three more needed). This is something I will work on intermittently. One of the things I've decided I want to do is hit up the used book store for some good, hardcover children's books.

But another thing I need is artwork. I wavered on whether to go black-and-white or color, and if color, which colors, and whether to do floral or landscape, or photography or art, and on and on. I finally decided that I didn't want anything that I would put in my house. If I would put it in my house, then I should. I want my office to be something different. The office is also already pretty neutral, so I opted for color--lots of it. I also noticed myself gravitating toward more abstract artwork, but couldn't find anything I just loved that was affordable.

I've been visiting 20x200.com pretty frequently and have loved several of their pieces. The prices are okay, but I can't always find a set of things I like (and I definitely need at least 2 decent-sized pieces for my office). There was a set of artwork that I really liked, but I couldn't get them in the $20 size. And then after looking at them I thought, Hey, I can make that!

I think my end versions may have fewer word strips and more color strips, but as I don't really have my word strips yet, I really don't know what I'm talking about. I thought of getting some pretty scrapbook paper (perhaps using some of the scraps I have), but at the suggestion of a friend, I went with the much more pocket-friendly method of cutting up magazine covers and pages. Real Simple to the rescue! I did look for some scrapbook paper with writing on it--found nothing--so I may visit the used bookstore for a cheap book of quotes or poetry that I can slice up. The problem is that I want it to have pretty and varied fonts, so I'll just see what I can find.

The other (and really, first) source of inspiration was a lampshade from Anthropologie. Pioneer Woman was having a gift card giveaway the other day, so I started perusing the site. Oh my. Such cute stuff, but so pricey! But after looking at this lampshade I thought, Hey, I can make that!

It's just scraps of fabric cut and then edged and slapped on a shade. After much looking and struggling and searching and calculating, I decided to go ahead and buy some fabric I originally found on fabric.com. I then found it on amazon, and found it again (cheaper) at an etsy shop.

Pack 1: Moda "Just Wing It"

Pack 2: Moda "Fresh Flowers"

I could have saved some money by buying some (less cute) fabric at JoAnn, but even if I'd gotten 50% off, I would only have saved $7. It was definitely worth it to pay a little more, get fabric I LOVE, and get a lot more of it. I can use leftover scraps for Chloe's quilt (which project is probably at least a year away).

So there you have it! No writing lately (although I do have a few good ideas after a good conversation with my writing buddy), but my need for creative outlet is definitively being met.

Christmas Cheer

2010-12-24T10:54:00.002-06:00

May your Christmas be merry, bright, and free of crazed reindeer.

Who'da thunk?

2010-12-03T10:44:00.005-06:00

If anyone had ever asked me to make a list of the authors I thought would be most likely to mentor me in my own writing, I probably would have glibly tripped off names like Lewis and Rowling, perhaps even Montgomery and, more recently, Hobb.

And certainly, these authors teach me something when I read their works. Their books--their series, actually--are my all-time favorites. I revel in their storytelling, their description, their dialogue, their narrative voice. And so, in a sense, they are mentors.

Had anyone asked me a few years ago to make that list, I'm not sure Stephen King would have even come to mind. But if he had, I would have relegated him to the bottom. I'm not a fan of horror, not in the least, and while I had found that I liked King's writing from his articles in Entertainment Weekly, I hadn't really become acquainted with him until that fateful meeting two years ago when, at a recommendation from a friend, I read On Writing. The rest, as you know, is history.

And today, as I've just finished three of the four stories in Different Seasons (a book I can recommend with little hesitation--two of the stories are the basis for the movies The Shawshank Redemption and Stand by Me, but expect some vulgarity), I can think of no other writer that mentors me more than King. Interestingly enough, it's not that I want to write like him. I'd rather write like Rowling, with a dash of Lewis for good measure. But when King writes about writing. . . man. I think the best way to say it--and I've said it before--is that he makes me want to write. He makes me believe I can. There is something about his passion for the craft that stirs my own passion. Like a tuning fork, he strikes the note that lingers long and true.

And so, if you were to ask me today, the list would be short. Stephen King--Uncle Stevie, as he calls himself--is, in spite of all odds, my writing mentor. Imagine that.

Sundries

2010-11-29T01:11:00.004-06:00

Several years ago I was driving by a local barbecue joint and I saw this huge gun. I mean big, folks, taller than me (hold your cracks). This huge gun is sitting out front of this restaurant, and get this: it’s on wheels. I screeched to a stop, pulled over, and took a picture (I just happened to have my camera with me). Who can resist a photo of someone rolling out the big guns?

The plan was to use that photo on my blog. At some point, I knew I would have some situation where we had to roll out the big guns, and BAM! I would have the perfect picture to accompany the adage. I was prepared to make people chuckle. Revel in my cleverness, O followers of my blog! Bow down before the preparedness of She Who Takes Pictures of Larger-Than-Life Guns Just So She Can Use Them on Her Blog.

The problem was, I never did have a situation where I could legitimately say I needed to roll out the big guns. I even tried to frame the events of my life in those terms, just so I could use the dumb picture, but I could never make it work. I still have the blog, and I still have the picture. It’s gathering virtual dust in a folder on my desktop.

Four years, and I never could find the punch line.

And as I was thinking about my writing, worrying for the umpteenth time about my book and the problems I’ve had in attempting to overhaul it, I thought about that picture. Good intentions, cleverness abounding, but no punch line. It’s an unfinished joke, one that’s lasted for years.

And that reminded me of The Nutcracker.

I'm at The Nutcracker about a week ago and this guy sits next to me. He’s obviously part of a larger party, only they’re all girls and they’re sitting in the row in front of me. So Odd Man Out sits next to me, and about 10 minutes into the show he leans forward to the girl on his right, and he caresses her ponytail with his fingers, lightly brushing her shoulder at the end. She’s stock still, but then a beat too late, she flinches. The seats in the theater are small and close together, but I lean as far away as I can from Odd Man Out, my womanly simpatico in full-force with Ponytail Girl. What is up with homedude?

But it didn’t stop there. Oh, no. A few minutes later, the creep leans forward to whisper something in her ear. She flinches right on time this go-round, and swats at him like he’s a fly buzzing in her ear. But get this. He then leans to the girl on his left—who’s sitting directly next to Ponytail Girl—whispers something in her ear, then caresses her shoulder with his hand and leaves it there. He’s just sitting there for several minutes with his hand on her shoulder. And she never flinches. She smiles at what he’s said and leaves his hand on her shoulder.

There’s gotta be a story in there somewhere, right?

I thought about it through most of The Nutcracker and I’ve thought about it for a week, but I have no idea what the story is.

So it’s like the picture of the big gun. A joke without a punch line. A scene, but no story.

And that brings me back to my book. Oh, my book. I’ve been working on it for a couple of years, and it’s okay, it needs a lot of reworking, but it’s got good bones, right? But there’s a bad guy and I have no idea what the bad guy does at the end of the story, and, really, what he does just has to change the current ending, but I don’t know how or why or in what ways. I don’t know if the bad guy reforms or if he dies or if he decides to take a trip to Bermuda. I’ve got most of his Act I, but Act II? Nothing.

Which is sort of like The Nutcracker. Man, all the action is in Act I. The Rat King, the tin soldiers, Clara swinging a sword. Act I is happening. Act II? Act II is nothing but a bunch of fairies dancing. Aside from the familiar music and some decent moves, Act II bored me to tears. I could have fallen asleep, except I was trying to discover the story behind Odd Man Out and Ponytail Girl. Really, I don’t see what the draw is. I can’t imagine going to this ballet year after year. Bo-ring.

And I don’t want my story to be boring. I want Act II to keep everyone on the edge of their seats. I don’t want my readers to say, “Seriously? Another dancing couple? Enough already! Give us the rats and tin soldiers!” More to the point, I want to have readers. What good is a story if no one reads it?

So I need to find the punch line. I need to know what happens in Act II. I need to find the story. And perhaps, like this thing here, the best way to do that is to just write it. But the big guns and Odd Man Out and Ponytail Girl hang over me and I wonder, what if I can’t find it? I have come at this thing from a few different angles lately, and I keep hitting a wall. This story is mine, but what if I’m never able to fully tell it, to uncover it and present it the way it should be shown? What if I’m not good enough? What if my tools are dull and my imagination weak and my writing—oh, my writing—average?

And I remember that if I want to write, I should write, and of course I haven’t been, and I’m out of practice, and I’ve been legitimately distracted, but what good is time off if I don’t write, and I just want to finish the darn thing, but it needs to be done right, and around and around I go. But there is a groove to be found, even if it’s not now. There is a flow, a crackle, and the muse escapes me currently. But as King has said (he whose story I am currently reading) that if the muse knows where to find you, she will eventually show up. So perhaps I’ll roll out the big guns (no. . . even now it doesn’t work) or maybe I’ll just start small, grease up the gears and get the machine rolling again. And maybe I’ll work with OMO and PG for a while, see if there’s something there, or maybe I’ll revisit my bad guy.

But, looky here, what do we have? There it is folks, some writing. Half-cocked, partially incoherent, but I'm in the chair again, 1:00 am and I couldn't stay in bed because the words kept coming. Yes, I remember, and I'm still a writer.

*Permission to use the photo should the need arise. Please let me know if you do. It needs a home.

Talk about timing

2010-11-19T07:29:00.002-06:00

A friend posted a link on Facebook, and it relates so well to my previous post and is such an easy way to help those in need.

Read this post, then click the link at the bottom to find out how to help.

I'll give you a hint. It involves Haiti, cereal boxes, and really pretty jewelry. How can you go wrong?

Consider Conspiracy

2010-11-17T21:33:00.006-06:00

Our Christmas is necessarily going to be smaller this year given that we still don't have a job. It's hard getting the kids to understand this, because every year we say, "Kids, we're not going to have as big of a Christmas this year." And then, we end up having a pretty big Christmas anyway.

So this year, as we're telling them we're not going to have as big of a Christmas, we're also telling them the dollar limit. Halle and Chloe understand that, and so it's sinking in a bit more that this year, we're TRULY going to have a smaller Christmas.

But as I was reading a post today, I was reminded of a similar post of mine a few years ago.

Read the links, folks. It only takes a minute.

Every year, we buy so much crap. I was just thinking today about whether we can afford stocking stuffers and what I would buy to fill stockings that wouldn't cost much. Candy, cheap dollar toys. And I realized tonight that all that stuff will be gone within a week, consumed or lost under the couch cushions. Cheap crap. Worth nothing.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not quite ready to go cold turkey on the gifts as the Voskamps have. But there's a real battle within me when I even begin to contemplate that. What if I didn't ask for anything for Christmas, but instead asked people to sponsor a child, or buy a goat for a family (wouldn't you know, a goat was on the main page), helped give people access to clean water?

And then, what if, instead of buying crap for my family, instead of spending a lot of money on stuff we don't need, why not bake some homemade pumpkin bread? Or sew a quilt? Or write a poem? Or make a photo collage (ok, we might have to spend a little money)?

And the impact is so far-reaching! We help the poor, truly love and help them. We improve our own lives by stepping back from the extreme consumerism that, well, consumes our country. We help out the environment as we're not pumping more trash into the system. When I don't buy the cheap stuff made in China, I help child laborers. We take the focus off ourselves and put it on others. Is there anything wrong with this?

Is there any reason NOT to give like this?

Other than my desire for stuff?

I don't like that question. But our necessarily smaller Christmas sure has me thinking about it.

reminder

2010-11-03T08:40:00.003-05:00

In the daily struggle to fight for joy, to hold on to hope, I am constantly asking what I should do. What's the next step? What's the next task? What should I do?

And it occurs to me this morning--this cool, blustery, rainy fall day--that sometimes the step is not a do. Sometimes it's just a be. Be still, be silent. Just for a moment, just be.

It Lingers Still

2010-10-29T08:19:00.003-05:00

It sneaks up on me at the oddest times and bowls me over with its force. A few years ago it was at a ladies' retreat. It was the first time I'd been in a camp setting singing with only ladies, and the memories washed over me. I stood and sobbed. I remember thinking I hoped no one around me thought it was some deep spiritual battle or something. I didn't want them praying for the wrong thing.

Because I wasn't struggling with sin, or being convicted of something, or wrestling with spiritual matters. I was remembering the singing. I was remembering the harmony, the friendship, the sisterhood. I was remembering the music.

It's happened a few times since then. There are certain songs that I just can't listen to anymore; I change the station when they come on, and so I've learned to avoid known triggers. But this morning I was watching a video clip of three siblings singing a worship song. They're young, and they're pretty talented, and I was enjoying and admiring their song, with no thought whatsoever of my past experiences, when BOOM! It hit me out of nowhere. And once more, I just sobbed.

Maybe there's a part of me that still longs for that. The harmony, the unity, the duende, as Angie put it. And maybe it's not a longing so much as the keen ache of remembering and knowing that it's gone. Either way, it's a heart wound that I'm coming to believe won't ever fully heal. Because deep down, I desperately miss the music.

remedy

2010-10-26T22:21:00.009-05:00

So once more, projects to the rescue. Reading over that linked post, I was struck by how similar I feel these days: heavy-laden, overburdened, discontent, uneasiness, agitation. Except this time, it's not from having too much on my plate; it's from having too little.

It's frustrating, this whole depression thing, because I had expected it to go away eventually after life got easier. And by easier, I mean "graduated and got a job." Yeah, funny how things don't always work out how we think they will. It's been almost 5 months now that I've been (largely) unemployed, and that certainly was not the plan. The uncertainty, guilt, stress, fear, and spiritual/mental exhaustion threaten to consume me daily, sometimes hourly. I've been clinging to every glimmer of peace and hope I can find. There are days I will play a certain song over and over until it's burned into my consciousness. Our fridge is filled with verses I've printed that promise peace, love, provision, good plans, hope, a future. I watch my new shoots daily for signs of blossoms. I drink in blog posts over at A Holy Experience.

And yet the fear lingers close, waiting to pounce. We are still without a job. I've applied for two jobs now at Baylor and we're just waiting to see if I get an interview. More waiting. I'm so tired of waiting. Hence the newest project. It's part distraction, part head-and-hand occupation, part enjoyment, part thrifty-earth-mother.

I'm sewing a quilt for Aaron.

He requested one, oh, at some point during the years I was making Halle's quilt. I don't remember which torn garment was the first to be saved, but I began accumulating his old clothes instead of throwing them out. See, Aaron wears clothes until they are literally falling apart. Then I patch them. Then he wears them out again. So by the time they've made it to the scrap pile, generally even Goodwill wouldn't take them. That's not true for all of the fabrics in this pile, but it is for most of them.

Clockwise in a spiral from the top left: shorts, shirt, pajama pants (worn by Aaron and then me), shirt, shorts, sheet, shirt, shorts, pillow case, sheet. I feel simultaneously pioneer woman-esque (not the blog) and hipster for repurposing these fabrics.

And this is the first completed square. I love the color scheme; it was completely unintentional. Aaron's really excited about it, too, which is great. I started working on ripping seams and cutting squares on Saturday afternoon. With his help, it was all done and this square sewn by yesterday evening, which is MUCH faster progress than I made with Halle's quilt (which took. . . three years?). The plan is to have it done by Christmas, even though I keep saying that will depend on whether I get a job.

In the meantime, though, I sew.

Not a pity party

2010-10-14T08:33:00.003-05:00

There's something about saying, "I struggle with depression." It implies that I'm not just sitting here taking it. I'm fighting it. I'm a fighter.

The problem with fighting, with struggling, is that, well, it's a struggle. It means hard work. How would you struggle with an attacker? By punching, kicking, biting, clawing, screaming. There's an element of desperation. That's struggle.

Struggle means exertion, and exertion, at least in this case, leads to exhaustion. And when you're exhausted, you can't struggle anymore. And so today, today I'm not struggling with depression. Today I just have depression.

said blooms

2010-10-10T17:13:00.012-05:00

Friday, October 1

The bloom

The shoots

Saturday, October 2

The shoots

Sunday, October 10

The shoots are now blooms

And today I discovered about 14 new shoots

Hope springs eternal. Even in fall.

currently repeating on iTunes

2010-10-04T09:35:00.002-05:00

From this one place I can't see very far.

From this one moment I'm square in the dark.

But these are the things I will trust in my heart.

You can see something else.

--Sara Groves

fall blooms

2010-09-29T09:51:00.003-05:00

I've been having a hard time of it lately. I still have no job, and all the open doors seem to be coming to naught. I have no leads on anything substantial, and I'm searching job postings daily for something that feels like it could be a fit. So far, nothing, except fear and anxiety.

Add to that the death of a friend last week.

And more, my dad's cancer is back. The news at this point is "not good" and I think the diagnosis we're waiting on may be an expected time frame.

The depression that I held at bay all summer long is creeping back in. No, not creeping. Stomping its feet and roaring.

A couple of days ago, I noticed that one of my spider lilies is about to bloom. I replanted these bulbs years ago, and I think they've only bloomed once since then. I know they didn't bloom last year, so this summer I was extra careful to water that spot, hoping to revive the sleeping bulbs. The flowers typically bloom in late summer, so I knew I would have to wait until September to see the results of my labor.

I began to grow disheartened when, driving around town, I saw spider lilies thriving in other yards. Dozens of deep red blooms, beautiful. I was a little envious, and I was bummed.

But then, there it was. My one little bloom. It wasn't quite what I'd hoped for, but at least I knew the bulbs were still alive.

Today, while taking out the recycling, I checked on that lone flower. It's coming along pretty well, and that made me smile. But then, as I poked around, I noticed another shoot pushing its way through the dirt. Then another, then another. There are a total of about 4 or 5 flowers where last year there was nothing. The bed was quite dry, so in order to encourage their progress, I watered the ground again thoroughly, soaking it.

Hope, like flowers, needs to be watered and tended.

And so today I have watered my hope with tears and prayers and songs and words. I will be back on the phone, calling more university presses to see if they hire freelance copyeditors. That is today, and all I can do is what needs to be done today.

And maybe, just maybe, something beautiful will spring from this dry ground.

Quiet

2010-09-24T09:02:00.001-05:00

Death is a strange thing.

One minute here, another minute not.

And in this case, sadness

resides side-by-side

with hope,

tears with peace

conflicting, colliding, combining.

Lost daughters,

darling girls

drifting.

Hope they find haven

just as he has.

Parents

holding Hope

as they hurt.

And I see him smiling

a face-wide grin,

finally whole.

So we do not grieve as those who have no

Hope.

But we do grieve.

Jonah Day

2010-09-16T16:29:00.003-05:00

One of the first things I did when I woke up this morning was step barefoot on a dead cockroach.

I should have taken this as a sign.

It was a day that made me profoundly grateful I'm not a teacher. I spent the majority of the day repeatedly asking students to pay attention, to help each other out, to step up and do something. I spent the day trying to combat ignorance when the entire school culture (including their other teachers, one of whom sleeps in class) is promoting it. I spent the day being periodically ignored, or, when students were actually paying attention, straining to hear them as my ears became more and more stopped up.

And then there are my children's schools. One school that, after I've waited in line for 15 minutes, closes the doors with 20 cars still waiting so that we all had to park our cars to go retrieve our children. Another school that tells my oldest she can't leave by one door (that she's been using for 4 weeks now); she has to leave via another door. End product of said door is that I would have to block traffic to pick up my two daughters, who get out of school 10 minutes apart from one another.

Stupid drivers. People stopping in the middle of a 4-lane road to pick up their child. People stopping when they have no stop sign, forcing me to wave them on, and then they turn right.

All in all, just a Jonah day. I'm going to go finish watching Waitress.

Speechless

2010-09-15T08:28:00.001-05:00

It's long. Read it anyway.

The one word...

Fun with Pictures

2010-09-12T15:12:00.013-05:00

Google Picasa, the program I use to store and edit my photos, has this really neat function that recognizes faces and gives you the option to tag them. Once you've tagged a lot of pictures for one person, the program begins to recognize that person's face and offers up suggestions for more photos of that person. It's really cool, but, of course, there are some bugs. As I was tagging the other day, I ran across some mistakes the program made in tagging people. None of the mistakes were surprising, given that they were all among relatives (it has at some point mixed up all of my children with each other), but it was fun seeing the photos side-by-side and seeing how similar they were.

For example, Noah and Halle (who were mixed up NUMEROUS times):

Ironically, both of these pictures were taken at Cherry Beach.

And then there's Brooke and me:

Granted, she's pregnant in her picture and I'm not in mine, but we're not going to dwell on that...

And then there were Chloe and Halle:

So, again, no big surprises, just some fun photo comparison that I never would have noticed on my own.

Immeasurably more?

2010-09-02T15:44:00.003-05:00

Today I started a part-time job tutoring at a local high school. It was a kind of crazy thing because the normal teacher was in meetings off and on so there was a sub. A sub who wasn't great at keeping order or understanding instructions or giving instructions. She was nice and all, but I think I did more to keep the classes on task than she did.

But even with that, it wasn't too bad. And when the actual teacher was in the classroom, it was even better. I stood around for a lot of the day, but I also helped several students. I figure if I can look back on today and feel pretty good about it, then this could be an okay gig.

On an even brighter note, I recently completed my first copyediting test. It was for the Baylor U. Press, and they said I did "really well." Hear that? REALLY WELL!!! They are "definitely interested" in having me work for them, so once they've got a project, they'll contact me. I will be a real, live copyeditor. A professional, real, live copyeditor!

And in the midst of all this, I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed being at home. I've never dropped all the kids off and come back to a quiet house unless I was sick. But for the past two weeks, I have been at home. I can't quite put my joy into words. I absolutely love being at home. I've done dishes and laundry, I've hung out with friends and my husband, I've done some work. My sincere prayer is that the Lord provides enough freelance work that I'm able to do this indefinitely.

And in the absence of immediate work (I'm still waiting on responses from my tutoring fliers and have only had one response from my copyediting fliers), I think I'm finally going to start submitting some writing. Why not try to make some money that way, too?

It's a lot, these many balls I'm hoping to juggle. But if it actually works out . . . wow. That will be so much more than I ever imagined.

It's my blog and I'll talk if I want to

2010-08-15T00:38:00.007-05:00

So the thing is, I have too many things to say right now to form a coherent post.

I went on vacation.

Except it was kind of stressful, but I don't want to talk about it. But it's a blog; that's what I'm supposed to do--talk about it. But I don't want to.

I don't have a job.

Okay, I'll talk about it. I was offered a job, then the offer was rescinded. During my vacation.

I did get a tan, though.

And read three books.

But I still don't have a job. And by "I," I mean "we." We are unemployed.

School starts in a week.

I had so much I wanted to get done this summer. Mainly I wanted to write. I think I wrote two pages. I think I deleted three.

I (mostly) painted my kitchen.

My kids' bikes got stolen. During my vacation.

Anyone need a teacher? I don't have a job.

There, that covers it.

Minor Makeover: Home Edition

2010-07-13T22:46:00.009-05:00

I've wanted to paint our hallway since we moved into this house six years ago. Six. Friggin'. Years. Can you believe it? Me either.

At first I didn't know what color I wanted to paint. Green? Too splashy. White? Too boring. Then I decided on gray--a nice, neutral gray. But I wanted a dark gray, not a light gray. And we all know we shouldn't paint small spaces with dark colors. It's a home decorating no-no. So I didn't paint.

Then we remodeled our living room. Then I went to school. Then I went to work. Things like painting the hallway got put on the back burner. The wayback burner. But going into this summer, one of the projects at the top of my list was painting the hallway.

But still there was the shade problem. I had talked to my friend Amanda about it, and she said something to the effect of, "Do you WANT to paint the hallway a light gray?"

"No," I replied.

"Then don't."

Oh. Okay.

So I painted it a dark gray.

Before:

The view from the dining room toward the bathroom door. My bedroom door is on the right. You really can't tell in this picture, but the wall is ugly, old, and dirty.

Moving left. This is Noah's door (with stickers).

Still moving left. The view from the bathroom toward the living room. The stairs to the girls' room is on the right.

The thing about the hallway going unpainted for so long was that I had begun to overlook several blemishes, like the one below. I'd just gotten used to them over time.

But no more!

The picture above probably shows the color the best.

This part of the hallway was the part I was most worried about. This strip of wall is about one inch wide. How the heck was I going to paint that? The answer: patience and a good paintbrush. I have an aversion to taping, so I've just gotten really good at cutting in. This--and the brown accent wall in the living room--are my Sistine Chapels of cutting in.

The only downside to painting the hallway is that I now must paint the trim. As you can see, it's a mix of colors ranging from really old yellowing trim to 6-year-old primer. At some point, it will all be the color of the trim in the living room. But it's going to have to wait. Painting trim is a weekend job. The next summer project is...

...the kitchen.

Why it takes me so long to post pictures

2010-07-08T12:22:00.009-05:00

Because I'm a verbal and visual rambler, that's why. I can't tell you how many pictures there are that Aaron looks at and asks, "Why did you take this?" and I answer, "For my blog. Duhhhh."

But when I start blogging the pictures and accompanying story, I discover there are other pictures I need, so I look for them, and then take more, and then upload... It's a problem. In fact, I still have a picture of the big gun in front of a barbecue place on Franklin Ave. because I've waited and waited for a blog post where I'd say, "We had to roll out the big guns." But, alas, such a post has yet to exist. But I've got the picture to go with it!!!

Do you remember last December when I was working on a window seat cover for the girls' room? I got it finished several months ago. So many months ago, in fact, that I'd completely forgotten that I still haven't finished the pillows. Hmm. So, more pillows to come (there are currently two of the pink and one blue. I've got to sew the second blue one and then I've also got some yellow polka-dot fabric from which to make pillows).

This was taken at the same time as the one below, but I used flash in an attempt to show the true colors of the fabrics.

The piping is purple and was actually much easier to sew in than I'd thought it would be. My problems ended up coming from some sort of strange measurement that I messed up. I ended up having to piece some things together. I also had to sew and rip seams about three or four or forty times at the very end because I just wasn't sure what I'd done wrong. BUT it's done. It's much looser than I'd like, but I'm very pleased overall.

The pillows were much, much easier. I'm particularly proud of the contrasting edging. It's like piping, but without the actual piping.

One of my latest home projects also involves fabric (but not sewing), so I'll go ahead and post it here, too. Rishi and Amanda recently got a new (to them) dining room table and chairs, so they were going to get rid of their old chairs. As they're some pretty great folding dark wood chairs, I volunteered to take them off their hands. Three of the chairs are just slatted chairs, but three of them have cushioned seats.

(As I'm writing, I'm realizing this is a longer story than I originally thought. I have now spent thirty minutes scrolling through my pictures so I can demonstrate to you the following.)

A few months ago, I took the fabric off the kitchen chairs so I could wash it. I bought this fabric several years ago before my living/dining room was redone because said chairs were originally in the dining room. Fabric is often the first way I decide on colors for a room, so this fabric was certainly inspirational.

Ha ha! I found a picture! See the fabric on the chairs? Yes. This is what I'm talking about. (And look at sweet baby Noah! Awww!) These chairs moved to the kitchen once we got the new floors and the new (to us) table and the new colors...

ANYWAY, the black metal chairs had been moved to the kitchen, and the fabric had been stained and washed and used and washed several times, so it was faded. And stained. So a few months back I had removed the fabric once more to wash it but had never gotten back around to recovering the kitchen chairs. They're currently covered in a green fabric that doesn't really come into play in this story.

So. Available fabric, new chairs. Perfect combination, right? Except, after I'd covered one of the new/used folding wooden chairs, it looked pretty good, but the fabric was still faded and stained. I wasn't as pleased with the outcome as I wanted to be. And then I had a flash. I was pretty sure I had some leftover fabric sitting somewhere from when I'd first covered the metal chairs. I looked in the fabric bin, and lo and behold...fresh, beautiful fabric! Only enough for two chairs, but that's all I'd permanently use, anyway.

(The third chair like this is currently residing--in its original fabric--in the upstairs closet alongside its wooden slatted cousins.)

What's so great is that this isn't even the fabric I ended up using to choose the paint color, but it still goes so well. I'm very pleased with the effect.

And the black metal chairs with the green fabric? They're soon going to be covered in this.

That's right. I'm painting the kitchen red. Someday. And speaking of paint...no, that's next post. You'll just have to wait.

The need to quantify

2010-06-30T01:13:00.005-05:00

I've been feeling frustrated about my "summer off." There is so much I want to do--so much--and I often feel there just isn't enough time. Add in the school work I've had to do, and there are some days when I feel just as overwhelmed as I did when I was working.

But I just 'cleaned' my electronic to-do list and discovered I have done far more than I realized this summer. In the past month I have:

created from scratch a unit on Julie of the Wolves
taught a lesson from said unit
moved my computer and books from my corner of the living room back to the desk
cleaned off/out the desk
rearranged some furniture in the living room so the exercise bike is no longer the first thing you see when you walk in the house
cleaned out/rearranged the upstairs closet
cleaned out my closet--it's a walk-in again!
painted the hallway (pictures upcoming)
recovered two chairs (pictures upcoming)
done lots of laundry
resumed work on my novel (this is a big part of what I want to work on this summer--WRITING)

Now that's pretty good as far as I'm concerned. Still on the list:

paint the hallway trim
paint the kitchen (walls and . . . *dunh-dunh-dunh* cabinets)
paint the laundry room (?) I have LOTS of left over paint from the hallway and this room has unfinished sheetrock in it
various sewing projects, possibly including a simple, large-square quilt for Aaron
much more writing and some submitting
find a job

I know I will not get all of this done, so it becomes a matter of prioritizing. And then I get frustrated when stupid school work pops up. So I find myself needing to quantify. And then I feel a little bit better.

We think she can dance

2010-06-27T11:58:00.011-05:00

*Update: I de-privatized the YouTube videos. Sorry 'bout that.*

So I completely forgot to post pictures and video from Chloe's recital last year. Here she is in her ballet costume. I took some pictures on the stage, but they were all really fuzzy.

And here, with some technical difficulty, is a really fuzzy video of her ballet dance. She's the one on the far left.

In fact, because of the extremely low quality of the video, I didn't even bother with videoing her tap routine. So here it is in pictures.

(The "BRA" in the background was part of a larger word at one point.)

Walking like an Egyptian

And now, Dance Recital 2010

Waiting to go on stage

Chloe and Lily

Video of Chloe's ballet. This is a little better quality than last year's, and is therefore taking 100 times as long to upload. (The slow upload time in general is one of the reasons I never posted last year's recital pictures. And never finished the Europe posts. Why, Blogger? Why?) *Update: I wasn't able to upload the video to Blogger, so I had to upload to YouTube.*

And the tap routine with some technical difficulties entirely beyond my control (this was during the dress rehearsal):

Teaching, with a bit of poetry thrown in for good measure

2010-06-25T10:51:00.002-05:00

I did my student teaching last night. No, I didn't actually teach kids; I taught my adult classmates. And I was nervous about it all yesterday. Years of public speaking experience? Yeah, I know. Singing, acting...? I know, I know! I was still nervous.

But once I got up there, I felt great! My voice shook a little when I was reading, but overall I had a great time. If this teaching gig can occasionally be like last night, then I think I can survive it.

Several other students did their practice teach last night, too, and one of them had us write an anthropomorphic poem. Anthropomorphic is just a fancy word for personification, so she had us pull objects out of a bag to write about. I drew a binder clip, and I was so pleased with my little ditty I had to share it with someone. Aren't you lucky?

I am a binder clip

My shiny silver clips

Clasp with sharp precision

Clicking closed

I am a binder clip

Bending, binding

Clicking, clacking

Gripping, grasping

Way better than a paper clip

*snap, snap, snap, snap, snap*

Playing Catch-Up

2010-06-20T20:56:00.004-05:00

I'm importing pictures from Chloe's latest dance recital, and as I'm scrolling through pictures, I'm realizing I never posted pictures from LAST year's recital. Or Chloe's birthday. Or, more recently, Halle's birthday. Or, you know, from last May when we went to Europe. (Good grief. Did I only post two blogs on that trip? Oh my.)

So I'm not promising to post ALL of those pictures (besides, for pictures of Europe, you can visit my Facebook page), and I still plan to blog about the trip, but...*sigh*. Not now. But I figured I would post some older pictures because they're just sittin' here molderin' on Picasa.

Without any further ado, I present Halle's birthday party (only two months later).

Halle decided she wanted a black and white party, prompted in part by the fact that she wanted a music theme. (She used to play piano and now she plays flute, first chair, thank-you-very-much.)

The cake, prompted by some cupcakes on the Kraft recipes website. And, why yes, I did use my Betty Crocker 100-piece Cake Decorating Kit!

This was the plate we put pizza on. It's also, by the way, the plate I made when we visited Practically Pikasso for Halle's last birthday.

Seesters (both of whom have had haircuts since this picture).

The birthday girl.

Up next: Chloe's recital pictures (two years' worth) and my latest home project.

Why Waco?

2010-06-08T17:38:00.002-05:00

A post of Rishi's prompted me to realize that, as of this week, our family has been in Waco for 7 years. Wow. That's more than half of Aaron's and my marriage, and the majority of our kids' lives. We moved here for the promise of friendship and a deeper experience in church, and hoo-boy! Have we found it. I'm smiling as I write this, not just because of the good stuff, but because of the hard stuff.

It's freaking hard living in community. It's messy, and people misunderstand and are misunderstood. It's hard pursuing others and being pursued. It's so much easier to sit in our living rooms and be isolated.

But how incredibly, beautifully, miraculously rewarding it is to be in community. To pursue when we don't want to, to love when we don't have love to give, to give when we want to take, to fail and be picked back up again by those who surround us. To see living examples of how we are truly, deeply, really not alone in all this.

I don't want to sugar coat it, so really, the best example I can give is marriage. Community, like marriage, is really hard. There's a certain brand of pain that only happens when in a fight with your spouse, because only your spouse can make you that angry, or push those certain buttons. Being in community can be like that. Being vulnerable makes us able to hurt each other, intentionally or not. But the reward . . . wow. The reward of being that close to someone, or to a body of people, is incomparable soul food. There's a richness, a security, an incredible, life-changing love.

So, yeah, no regrets here.

Show and Tell

2010-05-27T09:59:00.004-05:00

One of the most valuable lessons I've learned about writing has been "Show, don't tell." This can be kind of hard to explain sometimes and can devolve into a discussion of semantics, but while looking for a quote today, I found this and think it conveys the idea perfectly:

Don't say the old lady screamed. Bring her on and let her scream. --Mark Twain

I forgot to show you...

2010-04-26T21:44:00.004-05:00

Look what I got in the mail a couple of weeks ago!

Things that make you go, "Hmm...", Part 2

2010-04-20T21:37:00.003-05:00

Look at me! Two blogs in one night! (Read the other one first, though.)

So I have to turn in three visuals with my 4th chapter of my memoir, and I figured I'd turn in a picture of my first book (written in 5th grade, of which I have the original. Turns out sometimes it's good to keep random stuff forever) and a picture of my most recent book. (Remember this post?) I'm not sure what the third visual will be.

Funny enough, as I was just re-reading that post about my book, I realized/remembered that I had never planned to take the Project AST course (see above post). You know, the course that led to my realization that I'm a writer? I only signed up for it because the other course fell through and I had NO IDEA what else to take that summer.

Hmm. Maybe it's life. Or maybe it's Divine Intervention.

Things that make you go, "Hmm..."

2010-04-20T19:32:00.003-05:00

Do you ever look for cosmic reasons behind insignificant things? I do.

If there are several unavoidable things that end up making me late leaving the house, I wonder if the Lord has spared me from being in a car wreck or something. Maybe it's just life, but maybe it's Divine Intervention.

My kids have a dentist appointment in late October, and as I was going to enter the information on my google calendar, I noticed that I have NaNoWriMo on my calendar for the month of November. Strange, I think. I don't remember putting that there. So I open it up to see if perhaps it's left over from ~~three~~ four years ago, even though I don't remember it being there. At all. Ever.

Nope, it's a non-recurring event. It just magically showed up on my calendar.

Maybe it's just life.

Honored

2010-04-15T12:44:00.001-05:00

I got this email today from my advisor (and favorite professor at UIS), Dr. Tena Helton. As I said in an email to my family, if I were wearing buttons, they'd be bursting! Also of note: graduation is exactly one month from today.

Dear Amy,

The English Department is very happy to designate you as our marshal this year at graduation. It means that you were selected by the entire department from a competitive list of students for your academic abilities and your engagement with the classes you’ve taken. You’ve impressed us all.

At graduation, you will have a special stole and will be first in line as English undergraduates walk across the stage. It also means that this honor is designated in the graduation program and that the designation is announced at the ceremony.

As Terry Bodenhorn, our interim chair mentioned, this is quite an honor.

Regards,

Tena

Meeting Ms. Write

2010-04-01T19:41:00.008-05:00

These memoir classes have been an incredible bit of reflection, which, as I thought about writing this post this evening, I realized is pretty cool coming at the end of my college experience. I turned 30 this year, and I'll graduate with my Bachelor's degree in a few months. I've learned scads over the past several years, and it's been really good to reflect on all of that growth and change.

More specifically, I've been writing about my journey as a writer. I actually ended up writing an essay (more of a compilation of things I've written in the past with some new filler) for my Memoirs Across Culture class and thought I'd share it. It's long, and quotes directly from this post, but I think it's pretty good.

Write Here, Write Now

I wrote my first novel when I was ten. It was only eight pages long and very short on plot, but I was convinced it was pure literary masterpiece. In my author biography, I indicated it was the first of “many” more novels to come. But it was to be fifteen years before another of those books would materialize. As Anne says in Anne of Green Gables, “…my future seemed to stretch out before me like a straight road. I thought I could see along it for many a milestone.” But by the time I was 25, I knew less of myself than I had known at ten. A series of poor choices, on my behalf and on others’, had left me feeling alone and very unsure of myself. I floundered, trying to find my identity as a woman, a mother, and a wife. Looking back I can recognize the many, many things that have brought me to a place where I am comfortable in my skin, where I have come into my own as a woman, and one large part of that process was coming into my own as a writer.

I began blogging in May 2005. I’d kept diaries sporadically as a child, but my online journal has been a constant for almost five years now. My blog is full of tales of my children, pictures of my various home projects, silly poems, ramblings, and reflection. My blog has been with me from remodeling my living room and returning to school to the death of my grandmother and my cousin’s stillborn son. And so what started as an experiment, a curiosity, became a powerful bit of self-reclamation. Blogging—and, really, let’s just call it what it is: writing—was a way of rediscovering myself. As I wrote little stories about my kids or reflected on who I was and what I wanted, I began to understand myself more. And in that process, I remembered how much I love writing.

It was through the blog world that I first heard about National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, a contest in which participants attempt to write a 50,000-word novel in 30 days. As I read about the contest, my heart leapt into my throat. It was such a bizarre, crazy idea. But how incredible it would be to spend an entire month writing. Writing a story. A story of my own. Was that even possible? Could I write an entire manuscript? Wasn’t that something only real writers did? I pondered these questions off and on for months, but when the next November rolled around, I decided to take the plunge. I was petrified. What if I failed? What if I couldn’t do it? Wouldn’t that just confirm my deepest fears that writing, being a writer, was only something the educated elite could do?

But I was also wildly excited. This was my chance to do something I’d dreamed of ever since I was a child. What if I did finish? What if I was a good writer? What implications would that have for my future? And so, on November 1, 2006, armed with an idea and a writing buddy, I set out to write my second novel.

I was one of 75,000 winners to cross the NaNoWriMo finish line that fall. Because my story wasn’t finished at 50,000 words, I continued to work on it into the next spring, finally completing the first draft in March. I was immensely proud. It had been an extremely challenging time, but it was also incredibly exhilarating. But even after that—even after I typed “The End” on my first real story and received positive feedback from several outside readers—I still didn’t consider myself a true writer. I always needed a disclaimer or a qualification of some sort. I was a wannabe writer, or, at best, an amateur writer. I could say I liked to write, but I could never call myself A Writer. As Elizabeth Berg says in her book, Escaping Into the Open: The Art of Writing True,“I thought writers have to have an education abroad, and wear tweed, and be interestingly tormented. I was only boringly tormented.”

But my perspective changed during the summer of 2008 when I took a Project Applied Study Term class at UIS. I chose to add a villain to my little manuscript, and, once more, I wrote a lot of story in a small amount of time. But as part of the course, I also read some books about writing: Berg’s book and Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.

A friend had recommended King’s book, and I was skeptical at first about how much I’d enjoy it. I’m not generally a fan of King’s fiction, but I fell in love with this book immediately. His words were encouraging and edifying and inspiring. My family and I were visiting my mom in Michigan that summer, and as I was sitting next to the St. Clair River enjoying the blue sky, cool breeze, and the soft, green summer grass, King’s words spoke directly to me.

“Do you need someone to make you a paper badge with the word writer on it before you can believe you are one?” he asked. “God, I hope not.”

Stephen King himself had just called me out.

It was one of the most humbling, empowering revelations I'd ever had. I was a writer. Unpublished, unpolished, unprofessional, but a writer nonetheless. And so I practiced saying it, tenuously at first, and then with more and more conviction. Working on my manuscript, I am a writer. On the plane home, I am a writer. At the grocery store, I am a writer. I had to say it several dozen times to myself before I had the guts to say it out loud. And, funny enough, it was in writing a blog post that I first declared it ‘out loud.’ Look out, world. I am a writer.

In looking through my notes from that summer to better remember the experience, I found a short story I had written. It’s very brief—only five short paragraphs—but as I read it for the first time in almost two years, I gave myself goosebumps. Oh, man. That’s what it’s about. I want to write like that. I want to write with depth and clarity and humor and gut and I want to give my readers goosebumps. When I do it to myself, that’s a bonus.

Writing fills me up and wears me out and quenches a desire in the very depths of my being and makes me ache to do it better. It's an expression of my brain and heart and soul, the very essence of who I am. It's one of the reasons I love a good story, and it's one of the reasons I've read everything I can get my hands on since I was four. Reading and imagining and writing—it's all part and parcel of who I am.

I am a writer.

A Stroll Down Memoir-y Lane

2010-03-15T21:26:00.005-05:00

I gotta say, there's not much that makes me want to write more than Stephen King's On Writing.

You remember this book, right? It led to this. In fact, as I've been writing my memoirs for my memoir writing class (I'm writing about my journey to realizing I was a writer), I've referenced this book a few times. There's a line where King says, “Do you need someone to make you a paper badge with the word writer on it before you can believe you are one?” And the thing was, I used to need that paper badge. But reading King's book that summer helped me take it off, so that's the title of my memoir--Paper Badge.

And while we're on the subject of memoir, let me just say I'm immersed in it this semester. I'm taking the memoir writing class, and I'm also taking a Memoirs Across Cultures class, for which I read roughly one memoir a week. Think Angela's Ashes, and Lipstick Jihad. But I've also been reading for fun, too. I've discovered I like to read before going to sleep--it helps me clear the mind and prepare for sleep--but I don't want to read my school books. Those require mental acuity and note-taking. No, I need simple, pleasurable books for bedtime. I had the urge to read the Little House books, and so I just jumped right in with Little House on the Prairie. (Little House in the Big Woods is literally falling apart at the seams.) I read all of those, then moved on to Caddie Woodlawn, then realized I'd skipped Farmer Boy (from the Little House series). After completing my pioneer-themed memoir run, and in the midst of writing my own memoir in which I talk about King's book, I remembered that I had never actually read the first half of On Writing, which is...you guessed it...a memoir.

It's been very enjoyable so far. But more than that, it makes me want to write, and submit, and write some more, and submit until I get published. The book is inspirational, darn it. Which is good, coming off my first rejection. Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. I submitted two stories to my school's literary journal, The Alchemist Review, and neither one was accepted. The journal is 'moving in a different direction' this year, whatever that means. While I didn't feel devastated, I did feel, well, rejected. But one of the things I've learned over the past couple of years is that one must submit, and submit, and submit some more. And so I've decided that this summer, while I'm not working (yay!), I will polish up some stories and/or articles and submit them.

But in the meantime, in the midst of the last semester of my schooling--in the midst of the grind and the wear and the drag toward the finish--I'm going to read about writing. After all, I could use a little inspiration.

Makes sense to me

2010-02-28T22:30:00.002-06:00

Noah: Mama, what was your last name before you got married?

Me: Gilbert.

Noah: Gilbert?! I thought it was Gr... Gir... Greg.

Me: Greg?! Why'd you think it was Greg?

Noah: Well, I can't even read!

Eeek!

2010-02-10T23:00:00.005-06:00

Guess what, internet?!? Number six on this link? The one who gets a runner-up prize? That's ME!!! (And you thought I was joking when I said I was a word nerd.)

I am so ridiculously excited right now!

And so ridiculously glad that Pioneer Woman is a middle child.

Say what?

2010-02-08T19:07:00.007-06:00

I've had several spam comments here lately. A couple of them were completely in Asian (Chinese?) characters, so I have no idea what they said. Today's was special, though. It made me laugh, so I thought I'd share.

"Yes undoubtedly, in some moments I can bruit about that I agree with you, but you may be considering other options.
to the article there is stationary a definitely as you did in the decrease publication of this request www.google.com/ie?as_q=scheibe motorfalke ?
I noticed the utter you have not used. Or you use the pitch-dark methods of promotion of the resource. I have a week and do necheg"

That, to me, inspires utmost confidence and really makes me want to click on that link.

small things

2010-01-13T23:23:00.004-06:00

This week has been crazy busy at work. CRAZY. BUSY.

Baylor students started back to school on Monday, so I've had requests from teachers to change classrooms, students needing me to issue permits or waivers so they can add or change classes, textbook issues, and other start-of-semester administrative stuff.

But there've been several other things I've had to do over the past few days that have made me even busier. We're bringing in candidates so I'm helping to arrange travel for them, professors are back from break so they're turning in various forms to me for processing. The fall 2010 schedule is due this Friday so I'm finishing that up. Plus my coworker has been busy with some pressing issues, leaving me to deal with more stuff than I normally would (not her fault, them's just the breaks). On top of all that, phone and foot traffic have been extremely high this week (mainly due to the start of classes), so on top of juggling numerous tasks at one time, I've also been constantly interrupted.

It's been a rough week.

Emotionally I'm doing okay. I've been really worn out when I get home, but I haven't had a breakdown, so that's definitely positive news. (See that, depression? This is me appreciating the positive!) I did have a near breakdown tonight because I couldn't find my brand new dress pants that still need to be shortened before I can wear them. I looked everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I looked through all the dirty clothes in my room, the dirty clothes in the hampers, the clean clothes in the baskets (this despite the fact that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had not yet taken the tags off, and, ergo, had not yet washed them). I looked under my bed, under the couches, under the dining room table, in Noah's room, in my dresser, Aaron's dresser, Halle's dresser (I couldn't get to Chloe's dresser--long story), my closet, the upstairs closet, and in all my sewing stuff. Nowhere. I was getting panicky. I felt like I couldn't breathe and was about to start crying really hard. Brand new pants. Haven't worn them once. Can't find them.

But I kept breathing, didn't break down crying, and eventually found them in a shoe box in my room. I have no idea how they got there, but I found them. And, yes, welcome to my world--pants in a shoebox.

So as I was laying in bed trying to calm down from the near-breakdown so I could get some sleep, I was reflecting on how crazy this week has been and hoping things calm down before I start school next week.

And then a profound gratefulness washed over me that school didn't start this week like I had thought it would. Goodness! If I'd have started school this week on top of all the work stuff, I'd be a mess right now. A great big heap of crying, hyperventilating mess.

But, no, school doesn't start until next week. And, on top of that, tomorrow's my last work day this week and I have a four-day weekend.

Pants found. Breakdown avoided. Break coming up. Thank you, Jesus.

blessed quiet for my soul

2009-12-28T21:38:00.005-06:00

I know I've mentioned how much I *heart* projects several times on my blog. I don't usually have much time for projects, but over the Thanksgiving break and now during the Christmas break, I've found I am really gravitating toward projects. I think, especially as I'm dealing with my depression, projects are a good way for me to spend my time. I don't end up wasting the day in blah and blech. I have a purpose, and I enjoy what I'm doing.

I've been meditating on Jesus' words, "Come to me..." lately, first in a devotional, and then in a song, and today I looked up the verse. "Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden and overburdened, and I will cause you to rest," Jesus says. "I will ease and relieve and refresh your souls. Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest and relief and ease and refreshment and recreation and blessed quiet for your souls." Matthew 11:28 & 29.

I have certainly felt heavy-laden and overburdened lately, not just with work and school and all the stress that comes from that, but also from the depression. Some days I am laden with feelings of profound discontent, uneasiness, and agitation. So the idea of refreshment and recreation and blessed quiet is supremely attractive.

I've also had time lately: beautiful, blessed time. I finished school a few weeks ago, and Baylor has wonderful holidays. I had Wednesday through Sunday off for Thanksgiving, and I've had off work since the 23rd and don't go back until January 4th. In this time, I've done several projects, and I think some of these projects have been a way that the Lord has brought recreation and refreshment to me.

Over Thanksgiving I did several house-cleaning projects because I *wanted* to (a novel feeling!), and I felt a great sense of accomplishment. But I also found time to put together this 500-piece Thomas Kinkade puzzle, and I really enjoyed it.

The kids and I also put together a gingerbread house earlier this month. We bought a little $9 kit at Wal-Mart that had everything in it but the candy canes. It was a fun experience! Had I attempted to make everything from scratch, it would not have been a fun experience.

I also took some Christmas pictures of the kids so I could finish up my yearly calendar project for my family's Christmas presents. After two hours, which included a long break because Noah was crying because he didn't "know how to smile," I wound up using one of the very first photos (isn't that the way it goes?!?) and one where I said something like, "Just do whatever you want to get the sillies out!"

And now over the Christmas break I've made a lovely cake:

I've also spent several hours painting the girls' new window seat and my mom and I are working on a cushion for the seat. No pictures yet, but I'll share when we're done.

I'm also finding sanity and refreshment in the music of J.J. Heller. Check her out. It's good stuff.

The moral of the story? I still struggle. This morning, for example, was quite difficult. But I know where to turn for soul refreshment, and he is creative in his ministrations.

Novembers past, present, and...

2009-11-26T00:08:00.003-06:00

I put on my NaNoWriMo t-shirt today for the first time in a long time and realized it's been three years since the madness. Sadly, it wasn't until several hours later that I realized it's been EXACTLY three years. See, this is November, and this is NaNoWriMo month.

(Oddly enough, when I was looking up old posts to link to, I realized I'd also called it madness then. Yeah, there's really just no better word for it.)

I stopped by the NaNo site to see if they are still selling the 2006 shirt (they're not), and happened upon a discussion board that caught my interest. Long story short, I found this and it made me giggle:

"One wordcount to rule them all
One website to find them
One month to bring them all
And in NaNoWriMo bind them
-- SynapticJam"

I don't know who SynapticJam is, but well done, my friend. Well done.

Oh, and my story? Yeah. I haven't worked on it since the summer before last. That makes me a little sad. But it's still percolating. I've had several ideas for it and am keeping them in a safe place (but not a place I'll remember where they are, mom). My more recent writing news is that I'm planning on submitting two of my short fiction pieces I've written this semester for my fiction class to the UIS Literary Journal. And after that, who knows? Further news: I wrote a short story based in Glockenspiel in the Forests of Waldweg and my teacher (who used to be an editor for fiction journals and who taught my Children's Lit class) loved it. She told me to polish it up a bit and submit it. So that's extremely encouraging. I'm not sure where I'd submit it, but I'm looking into it. So, while it's not quite NaNoWriMo, all is not quiet on the writing front.

...from ashes

2009-11-12T23:17:00.002-06:00

More articles. Sorry.

Except, I'm not sorry.

You may have heard of Steven Curtis Chapman, and you may know his youngest daughter died under particularly tragic circumstances a little more than a year ago. He has a new album out, so there's lots of press out there right now. But this is not slick, new-album marketing; this is not glossed over in any way. This is real. This man has poured his grief and hope and anger and faith into these songs, and that is coming through in the press. I admire so deeply the way he and his family have dealt with this, not glossing over the grief, and not giving into it either; living relatively publicly that constant struggle of faith. This whole thing has touched me deeply, so I wanted to share.

So. The articles.

An interview from Christianity Today.

An article from CNN.

And, best of all, streaming music on his website. I wept through the entire first song, but not entirely out of sadness. I guess the title of the album just really sums it up.

Beauty Will Rise.

Oh, yeah

2009-10-13T17:26:00.002-05:00

I also thought this article from Christianity Today was good, and it's short enough to post:

Come, Lord Jesus
Oh, wait. He's already here.
by Carolyn Arends

I was a guest musician at a church in Winnipeg, engaged in the familiar liturgies of a pre-service prayer huddle. One person prayed for the congregation's safety in inclement weather, another for the technical aspects of the service, and a third kindly remembered my family back home.

When my turn came, I must have used a phrase like, "God, we invite you here among us." I clearly recall the minister's prayer, which followed mine: "We know we do not have to request your presence, because there is nowhere you are not. So we celebrate the fact you are already here with us now."

My head stayed bowed, but my face burned. This guy is correcting my theology with his prayer!

The service went as planned. But throughout the evening, I was mentally defending my choice of words. Of course I know God is everywhere—I've read Psalm 139! I was requesting an extra measure of his presence, an outpouring of his Spirit. Or, if you want to be more precise (and clearly you do), I was praying that God would help us to be open to him. Aren't we just arguing semantics?

I never articulated any of these thoughts to the minister. But the dialogue I've had with him in my head ever since has gradually refined my thinking—a case of iron sharpening particularly dull iron. I now believe that pastor's gentle correction was necessary.

If the psalmist is right—that there truly is nowhere we can go to flee God's presence—why do we act like his attendance is intermittent? And why do we assume it's dependent on us?

"Halfway through the retreat, God showed up," we say. As if he wasn't there before we were, drawing us to that time and place.

"Lord, we welcome you to come," we pray. As if he needs us to usher him into the world he created. As if we do not "live and move and have our being" in him alone (Acts 17:28).

In the Gospels, Jesus makes a simple proclamation with seismic implications: "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near" (Matt. 4:17). For those of us who grew up in the hot, scary shadows of brimstone pulpits, the command to repent causes an involuntary shudder. But the Greek word is metanoeite, which is more invitation than threat. It means "change your mind" or "reconsider."

Reconsider what? According to Jesus, everything you thought you knew about reality. Why? Because the kingdom of heaven is near.

Most of us think of heaven as somewhere out there, the place where God watches from a distance and we will one day join him. But for the biblical writers, heaven is close. In fact, the "first heavens" is a term used to describe the earth's atmosphere. So when Jesus describes the invisible (but very real) realm that God inhabits, he lets us know it's not only out there, but also as near as the atmosphere surrounding our bodies and the air we breathe.

That Winnipeg minister was calling me to repent—to reconsider what I thought I knew about reality and the way God pervades it. I don't have to invoke God's presence. I only have to attend to it.

This change of heart and mind alters the way I approach discipleship. I suspect I have sometimes unconsciously used spiritual disciplines as smoke signals to get God 's attention. Now I am learning that they are simply ways of letting him capture mine.

A similar change has occurred in my orientation toward evangelism. I don't have to give a nonbeliever something I have that she doesn't. I need only invite her to open herself up to what God is already doing all around her.

The other day I was trying to describe this shift in my understanding to my friend Roy Salmond. He ran to pull out an article he'd read in Time magazine more than a decade ago. It's an eloquent piece called "The Game of Catch," by Roger Rosenblatt, about baseball, parenthood, and the wordless communication between a father and son tossing the ball around. While the article is in no way religious, one thought in particular has permanently changed Roy's view of life with God.

"They do not call it a game of throw," Roy quoted, grinning. "They call it catch."

Oddly enough, I understood exactly what he meant. Spiritually speaking, I've been preoccupied with throwing the ball; this turns out to be a case in which it would be better to receive than to give.

God is the initiator. We love because he first loved us. We're here because he thought of us and welcomed us into his world. Yes, he stands at the doors to our hearts and knocks, but we need only let him in. We don't have to summon him from another country or galaxy. The kingdom of God is already near.

Repent. It's time to play catch.

Good stuff

2009-10-06T21:20:00.003-05:00

I think this article titled "Sex & the City of God" is phenomenal. It's long; read it anyway.

Here's the part where I whine

2009-10-02T23:30:00.005-05:00

So, it's no sooner than I say, "Oh, I can handle this" (insert goofy, sarcastic voice) that I have this overwhelming feeling that I can't handle this. I just can't do it for one more day. I'm fractious.

And maybe fractious is what happens when I've had basically nothing to do this week. Yeah, you heard me right. It's not that I'm overwhelmed because I've been so busy. No, I'm just tired. I'm bored. I'm ready to move on already. I have senior-itis. I am sick of it all. It feels pointless and monotonous and never-ending. And I'm glad work has been reeeaaallly slow, because I've been able to do school work. But I'm a bit bored. I've seriously moved from easy to medium to hard to evil on websudoku.com just this week. And I'm glad my classes are relatively easy, because it's nice not to have to bust my ass to get a good grade (see posts here.) But I'm over it. Learning has become something that sounds nice, but, really, who freaking cares? Give me the diploma already. I'm a life-long learner, blah, blah, blah. I'll pick this stuff up later, just let me get off the ride.

And even more, I am overwhelmed by all the things--all the many, many things--that I want to do, and should do, and need to do, that don't. get. done. I want to smack people when they talk about how busy their lives are. I want to give them a run-down of my schedule and my husband's schedule and my kids's schedules and say, "What were you saying about busy? Hmmm?" I hear people talk and read articles about how busy we are these days, and "Here's a list of 5 ways you can learn to say no" and I'm all, "SAY NO TO WHAT?!?" What in my life can I say no to? My life is so busy that when I'm not busy, I revert into an almost comatose state. And that's just one more state of dysfunction that overwhelms me.

And I'm just tired. I'm so tired. I'm tired of the busyness and I'm tired of the daily grind and I'm tired of school and I'm just sleepy-tired. I walk around in a constant state of fuzz. Tired fuzziness. I forget simple words like "overhead projector" and "transparency." Seriously, I just had to remember the word "transparency" so I could tell you I forget it.

And while I'm at it, let me throw this out there, too: I think I'm afraid. I'm afraid that all this effort will be for naught. That I will have poured myself out for three years--found this desire for copyediting and the courage to call myself a writer and dare to see where it takes me--and it will be for nothing. I'm afraid that, after all, I'll end up being a teacher for the rest of my life, and I don't want that. I don't want to clock in every day and deal with a room full of America's future leaders whose lives I could impact for good. I don't want to deal with parents, and I don't want to deal with administrators, and I don't want to deal with the TAKS test, and I don't want to do it. *Stomps foot* I want to work from home, and write, and maybe do laundry and clean my house and pick my kids up from school. I want my dream job. I am doing all of this so that I can have my dream job, and I'm afraid the temp job will throttle the dream job.

So, there. It's out there. All the crap, there it is. And, despite the fact that it's almost midnight ("You say you're tired, Amy. Well, here's an idea..."), writing makes me feel less tired. More whole. Because if I can still write, then maybe I can actually help others write. And maybe I can help them write well. And if I can help others write well, then maybe I can write well, too. And then, maybe...

Because through it all, there's still hope. And that's why I keep going.

Even though the day be laden
And my task dreary
And my strength small
A song keeps singing in my heart
For I know that I am Thine
I am part of Thee
Thou art kin to me
And all my times
All my times
Are in Thy hands

(From the Iona community)

As to win the prize

2009-09-25T22:53:00.007-05:00

I feel like I’ve been running a marathon.

Not that I’ve ever run a marathon. I’ve run a mile, albeit several, several years ago. I used to run a mile every day in 7^th grade. I hated every minute of it, and yet I was always proud at the end that I did it. I ran a mile. Better yet, I ran a mile and I wasn’t last. I wasn’t even close to last. Feels good.

I’ve even run a mile and a half. Did I ever run two miles? I don’t think so. But I remember running that mile and a half. Oh, dear Lord, I did NOT think I could make it those two extra laps. Are you kidding me? I couldn’t do it. That last lap was torture. I had a stitch in my side, I was hot and sweaty, I couldn’t breathe, I was thirsty, and I was tired. But I did it, of course. Because if you can run a mile, you can generally run a mile and a half.

Now, I understand that a mile and a half is nowhere near a marathon. So maybe I should say I feel like I’ve been running a mile and a half. Because I can do a mile, no problem. A mile? I’ve been doing a mile for years now. Kids? No problem. 50,000 words in 30 days? Piece of cake. School on top of it all? Okay, that’s stepping it up, but it’s still doable.

Now throw a full-time job on top of it, and you’re pushing it. Have the husband go back to school, too, and we’re into those two extra laps. We may even be up to two miles by now. And you know what? It’s doable. Because if you can run a mile, you can run a mile and a half. And if you can run a mile and a half, you can run two.

But, Lord, I’m tired. I’m thirsty. Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe and I’ve got a stitch in my side.

But I can see that finish line coming up. I can see it.

Classes for spring 2010 posted, and I know that for my final semester—my final semester—I will be taking Creative Writing: Prose and World Literature. Once more, I have professors I’ve had before, and I am interested in the subject matter. I will graduate in eight months. That’s still a while, but it’s only about one more lap.

One more lap. I can do that.

Did I mention I heart projects?

2009-09-15T21:48:00.007-05:00

As if my posts here and here weren't enough to convince you how much I love projects, here's another one.

Noah's room is very bright. This is lovely and all for daytime play, but isn't so great for Saturday morning sleeping in. I've wanted to get curtains for his room for just about as long as the boy has been alive, but just never did. Curtains are friggin' expensive. So the boy has gone curtain-less.

Until I recently had a brainstorm (it does happen every once in a while). See, we had these light-khaki-colored cotton duck curtains in our living room when we lived in Tyler.

They were great at blocking the neighbor's view into our picture window. But when we moved to Waco, we didn't have anywhere to put them. Sure, we could have put them in our current living room, but the curtain rods don't suit our present living room window configuration, so they went into our bedroom. And, well, curtain rods are friggin' expensive. Besides, we didn't really want curtains in the living room. They messed up the vibe. So, the curtains sat on a shelf in our closet for five years. Wait, six years. Geez.

Until the recent brainstorm. One day I was contemplating the curtain dilemma and suddenly thought, why not dye the light-khaki-colored curtains? Brilliant! One trip to Jo-Ann, $15, and about 3 hours later, voila! Kelly green curtains that uncannily matched Noah's kelly green canvas bins. Does it get any better? No, it does not.

(The color is a little off. Whereas before this room got lots of sunlight, the curtains have made it darker, and I had a hard time getting good lighting. In real life, it's a great kelly green).

And then the kelly-green-colored curtains sat on Noah's dresser for two or three months until I could find some reasonably priced curtain rods. I considered finials and all, especially since Pottery Barn Kids had some stinking cute, glow-in-the-dark star finials. But PBK is a little out of my budget range, and besides, they no longer carry those finials. Instead, I went with the traditional, cheap curtain rods, with a twist. They're brown and have mini-finials. Say that five times fast: mini-finials, mini-finials, mini-finials...

And so, the curtains are now hung and Noah's room is completely finished and decorated.

Well, okay, not really. See, I only bought enough dye for four curtains because I thought I was going to just hang one per window. But that didn't look right, so I had to do the traditional two curtains per window. I need to buy more dye so I can do two more curtains. But at least I don't have to buy more curtains!

And, yeah, so we haven't quite finished the wall where we closed in the door to the living room. And it turns out, Noah has this thing for superheroes, hence the Transformers poster that just does NOT go with the star theme.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, you should know there are Spider-Man sheets under the quilt. But at least he'll sleep longer in them on Saturday morning!

Praise God!

2009-09-05T11:08:00.002-05:00

Andrea is pregnant!

Psalm 113

Who Is like the Lord Our God?

Praise the Lord! Praise, O servants of the Lord,
praise the name of the Lord!

Blessed be the name of the Lord
from this time forth and forevermore!
From the rising of the sun to its setting,
the name of the Lord is to be praised!

The Lord is high above all nations,
and his glory above the heavens!
Who is like the Lord our God,
who is seated on high,
who looks far down
on the heavens and the earth?
He raises the poor from the dust
and lifts the needy from the ash heap,
to make them sit with princes,
with the princes of his people.
He gives the barren woman a home,
making her the joyous mother of children.
Praise the Lord!

Keys

2009-08-27T18:37:00.000-05:00

I cannot find my work keys, and I found out this evening that this could be a real problem.

Last Tuesday I was at work and needed my keys for something, and when I looked in my purse to get them, they weren't there. We had been in Tyler the previous weekend, so I emailed Aaron's mom and grandmother to ask them to look for the keys (neither of them have found them). I've looked in my car and Aaron's car numerous times, we've looked in and under all of our couches, I've looked on and under my desk and my co-worker's desk...

I haven't been able to find the keys anywhere. I have a few more options (including calling Housekeeping to see if someone found them), but I found out this evening that if I can't find the keys, our entire building plus one floor of another building will have to be re-keyed and all of our professors issued new keys, all at great expense to my department. This makes me extremely embarrassed and sad and angry and frustrated and...

Please pray. Of course, I want first and foremost to find the keys, and I know the Lord knows where they are. I would love for Him to speak to somebody about where they are and return them to me. But if this doesn't happen, please pray for grace on the part of our professors and especially my new boss. I really hate the idea of going to her and telling her the department will have to spend thousands of dollars because I can't find my keys.

...and if you happen to see 8 or 10 brass-colored keys and a Boston key chain, please let me know!

London, Day 2

2009-08-22T10:16:00.004-05:00

On the second day, we visited a little internet cafe down the street from our hotel. We had thought we'd be able to find internet access from our hotel, but we couldn't. It turned out that internet connections in London and Paris were much harder to come by than we thought they would be.

We then walked through some light rain to Paddington station. I have to say that being in a city with good, reliable public transportation was really a cool experience for me. So few people drove in London or in Paris, which is the polar opposite of where I live. I so enjoyed the experience and really wish it was one I could participate in in real life. Still, at the end of the day, we were always really worn out from all the walking.

Paddington station was interesting. It's a combination of overland trains and subways, so it's very, very busy, especially during the morning when we were there. Aaron had to use the restroom (during which time he discovered the novelty of pay toilets), so I sat on a bench and people-watched. Two things interested me. One was a pigeon. I swear to you, this was the largest, fattest pigeon I have ever seen in my life, and it just walked through the station as if it were one of the morning commuters. What really cracked me up, though, was the way the pigeon moved. His head bobbed in time to his walking, so when he sped up to get out of the way of some people, his head would bob really fast. It was hilarious.

The second thing I noticed was that there were NO overweight people. None. Zero. I was actually looking, having heard about us lazy, overweight Americans. Well, they're right. I'm sure it has to do with all the driving we do as opposed to all the walking they do.

And while we're sort of on the subject, can I just take a moment to communicate to you how fast-paced London is? I don't know that I can adequately describe it, but Paddington Station was just an example. Pretty much everywhere we went, people were bustling about. Someone was always running to catch the tube, or the bus, or a cab. It was a little overwhelming sometimes.

While we were in London, the weather was cool enough to need a light sweater, which was WONDERFUL! Other than the brief showers these first two mornings, the weather was sunny and clear, in the upper 60s to low 70s. In a word, perfect. However, I had brought only one sweater with me, mainly because it was the only I owned. It didn't seem feasible to wash it every night, and I'd been wanting another one anyway, so we took the tube from Paddington to Piccadilly Circus again because we'd seen a Gap the day before.

While here, we shopped around some. I found a great sweater at Gap, which I realize is not all that adventurous of me. But the price was right, and I can say my Gap sweater came from London.

I know we bought some souvenirs, too. We also stopped in a National Geographic store, which was really neat. It was like a bigger, better, more upscale Pier One. Fewer items, much greater cool-factor. They had one-of-a-kind furniture from all over the world (with one-of-a-kind prices), and there was a small art gallery of sorts with NG photographs. It was a fun little stop.

I'm having a hard time remembering when we went to Harrod's but I'm pretty sure it was this day. We didn't take any pictures, but it was certainly interesting. The store is ginormous, and divided into different rooms, with each room devoted to one thing. For example, there was a chocolate room, a food/market room with cuisines from all over the world, a wine room, a candy room, and then all the regular department store sections. We wandered through all the food rooms a few times, bought some more souvenirs, and grabbed lunch to take back to our hotel since there weren't many places to sit in the food rooms.

After lunch we made our way to Covent Garden. After much reflection, I think I've decided this was my favorite day. It was relaxed and fun. We wandered through some neat little shops and boutiques. We looked at purses at Fossil, and I drooled over what I simply could not afford (I did buy a Fossil wallet at an outlet store state-side and I love it). I walked through a bead shop that had an eclectic, crafty feel. I didn't even know that many varieties of beads existed. We wandered around, taking in the London sights and stopped to watch a particularly good busker.

That was another thing that was so neat about London--the buskers. (Aside: If you haven't seen the movie "Once," you need to go rent it now.) There were so many good street performers, many of them musicians. It was so fun to walk through the tube station, listening to the music bounce off the narrow, rounded walls, and then come upon some guy playing guitar and singing, or a girl playing violin.

While in the Covent Garden area, we also visited a Crabtree & Evelyn, which I honestly didn't know was a world-wide chain. The one in London didn't give out any free samples like the one in Tyler does, though. There were several other higher end shops in this area, but many of them were closing, as it was early evening by now.

We wandered past an opera house (on the left) and saw many Londoners dressed to the hilt, so I suppose there was a performance that night. As we turned the corner next to the opera house, we walked past some very swanky, brand name shops. They were much less interesting.

We were getting hungry so we decided to visit this Turkish restaurant, Tas Ev, that Aaron had picked from our London guide book. It's on the South Bank, so we made our way across the river.

View of the London eye from the 'north' bank

Crossing the bridge

Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament from the South Bank

I was skeptical about eating Turkish food, but that was one of the best meals we had the whole trip. They had this really good bread on the table, and then I ordered some sort of chicken & vegetable grill plate with almond rice...oh my goodness. I wish I had some right now. The flavors were spectacular.

The London Eye, Big Ben and Parliament in the background

One of the funny things I discovered about London & Paris (Europe?) is that their 'lemonade' is very different from ours. I ordered lemonade several times in hopes of getting, well, lemonade, but what I got was quite a bit like Sprite, but not as sweet. However, in London they had This Water in all of the Starbucks and I fell in love with the lemon flavor. It was like lemonade, but not as intense. Yum.

By the time we left the restaurant, it was quite dark and quite late, so we headed home to bed.

Next up: London Aquarium and Buckingham Palace!

Why do you ask?

2009-08-18T20:50:00.003-05:00

Noah: Why did the dog try to get to the other side?
Aaron: Why?
N: No, I asked you why. You have to tell me, and I'll tell you if you get it wrong.
A: Oh, okay.
N: Why did the dog try to get to the other side?
A: Because he was crossing the road?
N: No, to get to his dog food!
A: *obligatory snicker*
N: Why did the cat try to get to the other side?
A: To get to his cat food?
N: No, because the dog was chasing him!

____________________________________________________

This conversation went on for several minutes, and ended up with a dinosaur eating a chicken, and Aaron telling Noah that elephants are herbivores. I wish I had this on video; it's one I'd never tire of watching.