tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90487269419851482642024-03-13T04:58:11.430-05:00jessclark.tvAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.comBlogger1843125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-83556486536781427712018-09-01T10:43:00.000-05:002018-09-01T10:43:02.024-05:00We're having a baby?? Clark Expansion Project (predicted) FAQ:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8EBNyJS7EcRLokw1mUhaqb6upmG-oMw_6q3cW_bCkGH96TtzolaNYTGJYBLg1FbBy5EGkOqQno3aYHGuyObY4qtjWSfiisOGiuHTSCOr2uYdolYjMFaw2VS_y2Xuh9s4QxB_2QXXK4I2/s1600/40421189_10156451609310446_4491449109055537152_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8EBNyJS7EcRLokw1mUhaqb6upmG-oMw_6q3cW_bCkGH96TtzolaNYTGJYBLg1FbBy5EGkOqQno3aYHGuyObY4qtjWSfiisOGiuHTSCOr2uYdolYjMFaw2VS_y2Xuh9s4QxB_2QXXK4I2/s320/40421189_10156451609310446_4491449109055537152_n.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="960" data-original-height="720" /></a></div><br />
Q: Wait, what? Are you joking?<br />
A: No, this is the real deal. New baby on the way! <br />
<br />
Q: Heh heh heh don’t yall know what causes that? <br />
A: Yes, thank you for asking! If you would like us to explain it, we have a very helpful book from Focus on the Family. Whiteboard session is extra.<br />
<br />
Q: Did you do this on purpose? Are you crazy? <br />
A: Well, we’d have to define THIS. But specifically in regard to pregnancy, no, this was not planned. In fact, we are 18 months post-vasectomy. Life finds a way. Let’s call it a great surprise, a miracle even.<br />
<br />
Q: What does this mean for Jess’s job at the church? <br />
A: Luckily my (Jess) gestational state will not directly interfere with my pastoring abilities. If at some point I end up on bedrest, I will still work by computer and maybe even have meetings couch-side. <br />
<br />
Q: Would you like nutritional and or/medical advice? <br />
A: Thank you for asking! Not particularly :D <br />
<br />
But seriously, just tell Richy and maybe he’ll crush it up in my cereal or something. <br />
<br />
Q: How pregnant are you? Why are you talking about it so early?<br />
A: We are just over a month. 5ish weeks and we believe every life is worth celebrating. We think this one will go the distance and be our first full-sized baby at birth. But even if this baby has a short life, we want to celebrate every day. For that reason we are letting you all in on it now! Currently our due date is Cinco De Mayo, which is very fitting in a dietary sense. Yum. <br />
<br />
Q: What do you need/ How can we help?<br />
A: That will be clearer as this pregnancy unfolds. We would love your prayers. We have a lot of faith and we’re very excited about this baby, but doubt and fear can creep in. We would appreciate you praying for peace for us (and pray for a looooong pregnancy) In time we may need help with the kids or the house or food. For now prayer and positivity will help us the most.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-70141657190235681922016-07-05T17:42:00.002-05:002016-07-05T17:42:51.786-05:00to mothers of miscarriageI gained membership to an awful club about a decade ago. Before I joined, I thought the membership was pretty exclusive, but now I know there are way too many of us.<br />
<br />
Statistically, 1 in 4 pregnancies ends in miscarriage. That's a staggering number, and it doesn't even factor in late losses, stillbirths and the rest. <br />
<br />
When I said goodbye to my twins, I had no idea of the sisterhood surrounding me. Now I see us, in the grocery store, in the elevator, sitting in churches, mothers without our children. Even when there are more children, our hearts know who is missing.<br />
<br />
"I don't know what to do," they tell me, "I am so sad but I was barely even pregnant..." <br />
<br />
"I shouldn't be so sad," they say, "my mom/husband/doctor/friends say something was wrong with it/the baby is in heaven/we weren't ready for kids/it wasn't really a baby..." <br />
<br />
<br />
Listen, mamas... you should be so sad. In a perfect world, no mother would ever have to live in a world without their child. You, however briefly, carried the soul of your child in your body. You are connected forever. You are their mother. Name your baby, mourn your baby, remember your baby. If someone can't empathize with you or understand that, then thank God they have not had to experience that kind of loss, but don't let their comprehension control your emotion. You know, we always know, deep down inside, who we carried. <br />
<br />
Someday, on the other side, we will sit by a river with the children we always knew, always loved. We will know them and they will know us. In that reality, we will finally be complete. Until then, we remember them, and we offer the hand of sisterhood, the grace to weep and remember. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-1223047761188642122016-06-07T07:45:00.001-05:002016-06-07T07:45:37.158-05:00Evan and Rees are 12My twins would be twelve today.<br />
<br />
I live just outside eternity. My mother heart knows that my children are just out of my reach, through a veil. There, in the safety of that world, they grow and they play without any of the risks and suffering of this side. In that world, they know my dad and other loved ones I lost a long time ago. In that world, they are fully healthy, whole and loved. <br />
If it had been up to me, they'd be on this side, blue eyes and dark blonde hair, full of jokes and witty thoughts. If I got to choose, they would be wrestling for possession of the Wii remote, eating too much cereal, outgrowing shoes at an absurd rate. <br />
<br />
I'd be baking an imperfect cake today, and they would make fun of it a little, but not too much, because they wouldn't want to hurt my feelings. <br />
<br />
If I got to pick, they'd be climbing in my bed at night, smelling like sweat and boy-feet, wrapping long arms around me and telling me about their days. "Go to bed," I would tell them, sternly, because I would see them again in the morning and this contact would not be all I ever had. <br />
<br />
Even knowing they live in perfection, I'd choose this side, where they would sit across from me, disappointed and confused by the darkness in people. I'd explain learning to love broken people, even as they held back tears because they are big now, too big to cry about being rejected. I'd cradle their fuzzy summer haircutted-heads and ache that I couldn't keep them from sorrow. Still, I'd pick this side. <br />
<br />
They will never know a broken bone, a broken heart, a bee sting or a fall from grace. I'm grateful for that. But a mama will always wish her baby was in her arms. <br />
<br />
Happy birthday, boys. You will always be loved. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-45452686591687512762016-04-30T09:43:00.001-05:002016-04-30T09:43:35.357-05:00Letter to Daddy: Sixteen yearsDaddy,<br />
<br />
Sixteen years today. Sixteen years since we stood around that hospital bed and waited for the beeping to stop. Sixteen years since Uncle Randy sang a hymn to see his beloved brother out. It's been sixteen years and part of me still thinks you're pulling a prank. I still see glimpses of salt and pepper hair, a guy in a denim shirt climbing in a tiny red car. Surely you aren't <i>really</i> gone. But you are, and in a few years, I will have lived longer without you than I lived with you. <br />
<br />
In a few years, a few breaths, just moments from now, I will be as old as you, and then I will be older than you ever were. <br />
<br />
I can say this, you made the most of 52 years. You used to tell me about the hippie days, when you'd say "Live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse," which is just the kind of morbid humor we both found so funny. We still do, Daddy, all of us. Well, maybe not Leah, she is appropriately horrified by such talk. Mama told me when she goes to sprinkle her ashes at Walmart on 242, because she was so happy there. It's not funny but it's so funny. In some ways your irreverence toward death makes it easier, the loss. Death is not the boss of us, we keep living and laughing. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhOSsfMJHKnSdViB4a6uG9RDtfIGNzeGB4E6eJCqvUzCquQj0kdaP6K840xYziqD9H0vkoUKmev3Mc93naMaL2dV5ohdyxv8u0pTodNyxfcHYAyu7uGE_cX-6INHzKxBKjdoplbQHcDYxY/s1600/883869_10151568291030446_1215696707_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhOSsfMJHKnSdViB4a6uG9RDtfIGNzeGB4E6eJCqvUzCquQj0kdaP6K840xYziqD9H0vkoUKmev3Mc93naMaL2dV5ohdyxv8u0pTodNyxfcHYAyu7uGE_cX-6INHzKxBKjdoplbQHcDYxY/s320/883869_10151568291030446_1215696707_o.jpg" /></a></div><br />
You didn't live like you were creating a legacy, you just <i>lived</i>. You woke up in the morning and you loved us. You woke up in the morning and you loved Jesus, and you worked and you wrote and you directed, always with the laughter, always safe and surrounding. You had no intention of dying but when death took you, you left with the right words said, because you always said how proud you were and how you loved us. <br />
<br />
It's gotten easier, living here without you. At first I didn't know how to exist. But since you've pulled off this prank for a solid 16 years, all of us have learned how to remember you and celebrate you as part of who we are. You didn't set out to leave a legacy but you did. <br />
<br />
So in these moments, this life I have, I will remember to say I love you. I will do my work and love the people around me and just <i>be</i>, because this is the stuff they write history books about. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-66725131328550739772015-09-04T09:55:00.000-05:002015-09-04T10:09:25.492-05:00Tristan goes to school (a tragic opera)It is completely quiet in my house. For the first time in over 16 years, there is no child here in my care. I mean, there have been days, hours that they were out for a while, but this is different. Tristan went to school today. Honestly, even as I cry, I think, "you are such a drama queen. FOUR hours. You're crying about leaving your four year old for FOUR HOURS." And in part, I'm right. But I'm also right to take a minute. <br>
<br>
Years ago, when each baby took that first wobbly step, I celebrated. It's all captured on camera, with my ecstatic voice cheering them on and ruining the video. "Go!" we cheer, "walk to Daddy! walk to the couch! come back to me!" You don't realize that first step is the beginning of their OWN journey. And every milestone, you have to wait a little longer for the "come back to me" part. <br>
<br>
It's a continual release against my own nature. "Go!" I say, while my heart is begging them to stay. <br>
<br>
I knew today would be hard, because it's the beginning of a new chapter, which means it's the end of a chapter. The long mornings of diapers and Sesame Street and Cheerios have been over for a while, but today I am watching that door close behind me, with new doors opening everywhere. And the new world is brave and exciting and so different, for me and for them. But part of me is just dying to go back, to go back to the exhaustion of nursing them at 2 in the morning, the walks down the sidewalk with constant interruptions because they saw a a bug. "wait," I'm saying, "wait, I didn't know that part was really over, wait... wait, I need you to need me." <br>
<br>
Tomorrow I will be better, I will be learning to embrace the change and celebrating all the NEW normal and victories. But I am letting myself cry today. Because change is hard,and letting go is not easy. And if I let myself sit here in the silence and <i>feel</i> this, I will be a better person in four hours. <br>
<br>
It's a strategy I have for sadness, I make room for it. Because we feel deeply about things we love, and that's good. <br>
<br>
So, okay, new chapter. Imma cry for a minute and then let's find the fun. <br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKPZjjbDO2CPk5joajB4gfCohqjWZshw-KLeOY9tS0cd2D0Ix0AHiLQ-PbZHaXA7AP-OP6MAYF2X3AO2F3aubOdLXSlaMcjgCwZdLieDt_w2SWVcnM5bB8xVIZTzjuFN8ePZI3iGs5dV7/s640/blogger-image--746546134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKPZjjbDO2CPk5joajB4gfCohqjWZshw-KLeOY9tS0cd2D0Ix0AHiLQ-PbZHaXA7AP-OP6MAYF2X3AO2F3aubOdLXSlaMcjgCwZdLieDt_w2SWVcnM5bB8xVIZTzjuFN8ePZI3iGs5dV7/s640/blogger-image--746546134.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-18528365559969611272015-07-31T20:05:00.001-05:002015-07-31T20:05:44.865-05:00Hard daysToday was a hard day. Not a <em>hard</em> day, like ones I've lived before, days that I woke up in the morning and asked God for more hours with one of my children before they left us forever. Those days are horrific. Today was just hard.<br />
<br />
Today was one of those days when I feel like I made no progress. I grounded children and capitulated for the sake of quiet. I folded clothes, just to have the baskets upturned. I washed the dishes while a child poured rice on the floor. I argued, pleaded, put my foot down, won and lost.<br />
<br />
One of those days when I look at my body, the bags under my eyes, my ponytail falling down and I wonder, "Who am I?" because the answer seems to be that I am just the answer. I am the answer to the injured child, the angry child, the hurting friend, whoever asks. I am the answer to the food and the clothes and the fears. I am the answer to who will teach these little ones to love. I am the answer and I just want to be invisible, sometimes. It's hard to be so essential and so ignored at the same time.<br />
<br />
One of those days that I had to continually ask for patience, for perspective, because rumor has it that the years are short. I take some comfort in knowing I might forget these, the not-great-but-not-terrible mundane days. I won't remember, maybe, what it feels like to step on cold macaroni. Maybe I'll forget almost crying over a mound of laundry, of all things.<br />
<br />
Or maybe I won't forget. Maybe I will just see <em>clearly</em>.<br />
<br />
<img class="aligncenter wp-image-4535 size-medium" src="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/brick-wall.jpg?w=300" alt="brick-wall" width="300" height="200" /><br />
<br />
<strong>Maybe today was one of those days that is a building block.</strong> Maybe today, I am being built into someone strong, resilient and patient. I am learning, over and over again, to choose to love, and I am teaching by learning.<br />
<br />
And I'm not the only one being built. Today is an unremarkable, but essential, brick in a wall of truth and consistency for my children. This hard day is another day that they were fed and taught and loved and <em>seen</em>. Some day we will look back at a solid wall, a strong wall built of ordinary days and occasionally, fantastic and awful days. "Look at what we built!" maybe we will marvel, even with the dings and the cracks.<br />
<br />
My responsibility is to keep building, keep learning and loving and trying and failing, because what I'm building is much, much bigger than what I can see. Today was a hard day and I'm proud of it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-23795416571165015092015-05-11T10:34:00.001-05:002015-05-11T10:34:22.605-05:00Momnesia <img class=" size-medium wp-image-4528 aligncenter" src="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2015/05/10645286_10152635921380446_8165100140040274108_n.jpg?w=300" alt="10645286_10152635921380446_8165100140040274108_n" width="300" height="225" /><br />
<br />
There are multiple safeguards that God built in to make parenting doable. For one thing, babies are adorable. Not at birth, mind you. A very select group of infants come out looking like humans, but the majority are more what my dad (RIP) often referred to as "boiled monkeys". The man had a way with words. But later, some time post-birth, they get fat little elbow dimples and ginormous Disney-eyes or what have you, and the cuteness gets significant. That is super useful, because they scream a lot and they don't really sleep, and the whole constant-poop thing- it would be a deal breaker if it were someone that just looked like a normal guy or a goblin or something.<br />
<br />
There are other safeguards but I'm a pretty lazy blogger so I'll just skip to the main one.<br />
<br />
This is a condition that occurs in childbearing women, often immediately after delivering a baby. I call it mom-nesia, which is an arguably unclever amnesia reference. Maybe I'm rusty.<br />
<br />
Here's how it goes down, a lot of the time. (disclaimer: this is not how it goes down with me, because I am in labor for 4 full months and then give birth to miniature children. but this is how I <i>understand</i> it goes down):<br />
<br />
Mother: (screaming, etc)<br />
Everybody else: "Breathe, relax, push, etc."<br />
Childbirth: "I WILL KILL YOU NOW AND HAVE YOUR SOUL."<br />
Mother: "Never mind, I will just stay pregnant. I don't want to do this, I'm getting up and going home AIIIIEEEE *&*&&!!@ MADRE DE DIOS."<br />
Childbirth: "LOL"<br />
(general screaming, pain and blood, magic fairy dust and daydreams for the natural birth crowd)<br />
Days later<br />
Baby: "Waah."<br />
Mother: "Let's have more children!"<br />
<br />
Momnesia.<br />
<br />
I get momnesia every time I take my kids on vacation.<br />
<br />
Me: "Let's go have a magical Amaro filtered beach trip with our 4 well behaved children."<br />
the Man of God: "<a href="https://jessicaclark.wordpress.com/2014/09/22/stress-in-a-new-place-or-vacation-with-kids/" target="_blank">Vacation with kids is not vacation</a>."<br />
Me: (a lot of things, sounds of vacation beginning)<br />
All of our money: "See ya suckas!"<br />
(general sounds of our kids fighting and falling down and refusing to eat overpriced restaurant meals)<br />
the Man of God: (not saying anything)<br />
Vacation: "LOL"<br />
<br />
Much later, in the last 30 minutes of vacation, we watch a sunset together. The children, sun-weary and full and content, sit beside us, and for a moment there is magic<br />
Me: "Let's ALWAYS go on vacations!"<br />
<br />
Momnesia.<br />
<br />
It happens everywhere. I ground them and forget they're grounded. I take them to the store because I forget about what happens when I take them to the store. "We can handle the<a href="https://jessicaclark.wordpress.com/2014/07/21/going-postal/" target="_blank"> post office,</a>" I think, because <strong>I have a disease.</strong> "What is your name?" I ask them, "you, with the hat." I let them stay up late because surely they will sleep in tomorrow.<br />
<br />
I would think there was a cure, a pill or an amount of time that will heal me and I will remember. The cold reality is, momnesia is terminal. You will live with it forever.<br />
<br />
My mom: "You kids never acted like that."<br />
Me: "I have VIDEOS of us acting EXACTLY like that."<br />
My mom: "Nope"<br />
Memory: "LOL"<br />
<br />
On the bright side, I think I'll get an Amaro filter for my old age.<br />
<br />
Me, in my senior years: "We used to take magical vacations with you kids."<br />
My Adult Children: (guilty) "We should take <i>our</i> kids on vacation, why don't we ever do that? It will be beautiful and perfect."<br />
Life: "LOL"<br />
<img class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-4527 aligncenter" src="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2015/05/11059696_10153119006120446_3843270465592100477_n.jpg?w=225" alt="11059696_10153119006120446_3843270465592100477_n" width="225" height="300" />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-56763571700005321812015-05-11T10:33:00.001-05:002015-05-11T10:33:53.330-05:00Altars<em>Why am I not writing? It's not like I don't have anything to say. I am saying things all the time. It's rallying the brain space to put it in words - I'm not finding that space. Not writing feels like I'm missing something crucial, like I forgot how to breathe normally. I am finding that life is not slowing down any, so I guess I have to figure out how to process on the go. </em><br />
<br />
I tread lightly through these months. They are filled with anniversaries of promise and dreams and loss. In these months I cradled babies in my womb, felt them kick. In the months to come I released them to God, to live or to die. Some died.<br />
<br />
I lost my innocence, I learned that life could be cruel. I said goodbye to my dad and tried to navigate life without a father. Many of the dates I couldn't pinpoint but I will wake with an ache in my chest and remember, "One time, today was a dream," and "once upon a time, today was a nightmare".<br />
<br />
I am finding, as time passes, evidence of God in my memories. I remember the grief and then I remember Him, close at hand, a God who knew how it felt to lose a son, to ache. I remember my pain and my rage and my anger and I remember His faithfulness. I remember floating out to sea in grief, prepared to let the waves drown me- I remember my life preserver, my Faithful Steadfast who carried me back to life.<br />
<br />
I still carry the ache of what-could-have-been, but it has been tempered by the beauty of what-is. In the midst of these gravestones, I see altars of remembrance. He carried me then and He carries me now.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-88873929365505342912014-12-11T13:17:00.001-06:002014-12-11T13:17:28.889-06:00Exit 105, take a seatI've got things to talk about. Tristan's birthday, moving across the country.. well, diagonally across, acclimating to Texas again, lots of things. But I won't talk about any of that today.<br />
<br />
See, what had happened was... my KC driver's license expired right before we moved. "No probs," thought I, because I think in these adorbs word configurations now, this is what I have done to myself. "No probs, I'll just blow this off and get my Texas license as soon as I get there." Except no, because if you don't have a valid license <em>somewhere</em> you have to start all over. As in applying, vision test, written test, and may God have mercy on my soul, the road test.<br />
<br />
"So what," maybe you're thinking. "You're a grown woman, and you've been driving for decades." And that is true, although my grown-ness was once loudly challenged in a gas station, because of my height and what I have to assume is an incredibly youthful appearance. ("You GROWN?" he asked me, from across the store. "I mean, you ain't like a child or nothing?") I digress. I am, more or less, grown.<br />
<br />
Back in the day, I failed the road test twice, because of parallel parking. I would like to veer wildly off course here, since I can and say WHY IN THIS DAY AND AGE DO I HAVE TO PARALLEL PARK. I AM GROWN AND I WILL DRIVE A HALF MILE AND PAY FOR PARKING BECAUSE I DON'T EVER, EVER<i> HAVE</i> TO PARALLEL PARK. Parallel parking, ironing clothes, check-writing, and phone calls: all prehistoric and personally offensive to me.<br />
<br />
So I went and I took the test and even cheerily posted a pre-test selfie.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/screen-shot-2014-12-11-at-1-11-54-pm.png"><img class="alignnone size-large wp-image-4511" src="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/screen-shot-2014-12-11-at-1-11-54-pm.png?w=660" alt="Screen Shot 2014-12-11 at 1.11.54 PM" width="660" height="411" /></a><br />
<br />
I guess I was flying too close to the sun. It started off well, with the DMV officer laughing at a couple of my jokes. First thing off the bat was parallel parking. I took a new approach, which was going so.very.slow. that I was unlikely to bump anything. (burned before) I'm pretty sure I flunked that portion but I knew it would only be a couple of points so I got a little cocky, because I <em>know how to drive.</em> Moments later, I was returning to the DPS in shame, having exceeded the speed limit by 5 miles. Automatic fail. The internet was unanimous, they all felt very sorry for me but also could not stop laughing. I was laughing too, for a while. Then panic set in.<br />
<br />
"What if," I asked myself in the wee hours of the night, staring into my ceiling fan, "what if I fail again, because I don't do a blinker enough yards from a turn? What if I don't check my mirrors enough? What if this time I DO bump the curb and oh Jesus whom I love, why do I have to parallel park again?"<br />
<a href="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/screen-shot-2014-12-11-at-1-10-03-pm.png"><img class="alignnone wp-image-4509 size-large" src="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/screen-shot-2014-12-11-at-1-10-03-pm.png?w=660" alt="Screen Shot 2014-12-11 at 1.10.03 PM" width="660" height="396" /></a><br />
I woke up hours early, as is my custom when I need extra time for worrying. When I arrived at the DPS, I tried to put on a brave face, like I had not been praying out loud for please PLEASE Jesus make me pass one moment before. Again, the jokes went over well. I parallel parked like a professional 90 year old with vision in one eye and a bleeding ulcer. Then I drove <em>under</em> the speed limit around the city of Conroe. The thing is, they won't tell you if you mess up or pass or fail. They just keep a poker face and tell you to park by the curb at the DPS before they break the news. At the final stoplight, I was pretty sure I had maybe failed again, so I tried a little test joke. "So," I said casually, "I guess you can't tell people their scores till they get back, so, you know, a failed student won't just take off on a raging joyride with you in the car, heh heh heh." She laughed, albeit a little nervously. She then directed me to park by the curb in sight of the armed troopers, and told me I passed. After that she exited pretty quickly to get my paperwork.<br />
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I stood on the curb by a man with a multitude of neck tattoos. In my mind, I referred to him as a felon, but then I decided that was a rash judgment and just called him a thug. I made some small talk about getting a license. "I haven't had one in 4 years," he spit out, directing his words towards the armed state troopers. "I don't see the POINT, but I am getting sick and tired of them ARRESTING ME ALL THE TIME." I gave the guy a little room to breathe. Finally she came out and gave me my paperwork, and I said goodbye, to the felon and to my own life of crime. Feels good to turn over a new leaf. Plus, now I can look my 8 year old Judgy McJudgerson, in the eye.<br />
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<a href="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/screen-shot-2014-12-11-at-1-12-54-pm.png"><img class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4512" src="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/screen-shot-2014-12-11-at-1-12-54-pm.png" alt="Screen Shot 2014-12-11 at 1.12.54 PM" width="637" height="627" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-52571193023922464352014-10-16T11:38:00.000-05:002014-10-16T11:38:22.678-05:00it's my birthday and i'll angst if i want toTomorrow, I will be 36. Technically, this year will still be my mid-30s, unlike my husband, who will turn 37 in 2 weeks and definitely be in his <em>late</em> 30s. 36. Guys, I can <em>smell</em> 40. 40 is not old anymore. In fact, I'm starting to feel a little iffy about calling <em>70</em> old. Still, as with all my fully-adult birthdays, I will now assess my life accomplishments and lack thereof, and ponder my mortality. Also I will <em>totally</em> get presents and make myself a cake.<br />
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I know that, someday, after I leave this mortal coil, people will talk really nicely about me, and my funeral will be a fairly cheerful event, given the circumstances. That's because I'm almost 36, thinking that way. I'm glad that you'll all be nice at my memorial, but I personally feel the pressure each year to have accomplished something meaningful. "Ah, well," I think, "at least I loved my kids."<br />
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I wonder if that gets easier, the way that other things got easier.<br />
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<a href="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/scan421.jpg?w=111" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="wp-image-4372 size-thumbnail" height="150" src="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/scan421.jpg?w=111" width="111" /></a>In grade school, I was convinced that my protruding ears would make me forever unattractive, and that no boy would ever love me. Somewhere right around age 13, my ears became a non-issue.<br />
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<br />
<a href="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2011/09/10522_156361780445_681940445_4022455_7961498_n1.jpg?w=150" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="wp-image-4254 size-thumbnail" height="102" src="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2011/09/10522_156361780445_681940445_4022455_7961498_n1.jpg?w=150" width="150" /></a>Part of the reason they faded was my overarching awkwardness, my wonky knee (it's crooked, mind your business), and all my many other MANY other awkwardnesses. All of high school I was very, very concerned about my non-blonde-and-tan-ness (in Texas, many high school girls look like Miss Teen Texas contestants, and <em>that</em> is daunting).<br />
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<a href="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/47629_10150356344660441_4994076_n.jpg?w=150" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="47629_10150356344660441_4994076_n" border="0" class="wp-image-4486 size-thumbnail" height="112" src="https://jessicaclark.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/47629_10150356344660441_4994076_n.jpg?w=150" width="150" /></a>In my 20s, I had a severely ill child and he was the only thing that mattered. Haircuts came and went, overalls were worn (I do miss my overalls), and life settled into stark perspective. In the light of life and death, I grew very comfortable in my skin.<br />
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Now, past the halfway mark of my 30s, I'm okay with how I look, how I think, how I relate to people, how I parent my children, for the most part. This decade, I am starting to worry about what I will accomplish. I have books in me, lots of books. I wonder if I will ever let them out. I like the thought of late bloomers. I wonder if the pressure to not be an underachiever will change.<br />
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I take comfort in the way that time shapes and shifts what matters, like a camera focus sharpening on the nearest object. This, my 37th year-in-waiting, will be a good year. I will learn to love. Also, maybe I'll write a book.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-25999469661447978452014-10-09T15:22:00.002-05:002014-10-09T15:22:37.924-05:00Clark Family Announcement! <iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ZPG_XJB4meA" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post" target="_top">
<input name="hosted_button_id" type="hidden" value="RFVTBUYEMGS7S" /><br />
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FAQs:<br />
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<strong>Isn't FAQ a complete statement? Is the s really necessary?</strong><br />
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Excellent question. I can't handle skipping the s. You're gonna have to accept this.<br />
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<strong>When are you moving? </strong><br />
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Our plan is to be in Texas on December 1st. We are looking for a big place to rent for the first 6 mos-year<br />
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<strong>Why Texas?</strong><br />
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Well, it's God's country. Obviously.<br />
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<strong>Tell us more about the job</strong><br />
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That's not a question, but I'm feeling generous. We will be Senior Associate Pastors, with holy duties all over the place. Stay tuned, there will be lots of internetting of meetings and so on.<br />
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<strong>Are you more excited about the pastoral position or the cheese enchiladas?</strong><br />
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I won't even dignify that with a response.<br />
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<strong>What can we do to help?</strong><br />
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Pray for a smooth transition, moving the kids means a new school, new friends, etc. Luckily we have family there, but it's still a big change. If you're local, we could use boxes and eventually we will need manpower to move furniture and whatnot. Lastly, you can donate to our <a href="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=RFVTBUYEMGS7S" target="_blank">moving fund</a> if you want to.<br />
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<strong>Will you miss Kansas City?</strong><br />
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We will, we love IHOP and our friends and, even though we're so excited about this new ministry, it is painful to leave so many precious people. We love the fact that IHOPpers are such a travel-y community and know we'll still get to see y'all from time to time.<br />
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<b>What else would you like to say?</b><br />
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So much, so many thanks for the years of blessing here. So many people who have walked with us. Words fail me. It has been a rich season and I will remember it with great fondness. Looking forward to a season of service and fruitfulness at Freedom Fellowship.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-613321232146930392014-10-01T12:11:00.000-05:002014-10-01T16:57:07.001-05:00Why I'm questioning modesty<blockquote>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZqKWWa1yjjo/Th32FtoYNoI/AAAAAAAABgI/5eKv1oxewpM/s1600/%5BUNSET%5D" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZqKWWa1yjjo/Th32FtoYNoI/AAAAAAAABgI/5eKv1oxewpM/s320/%5BUNSET%5D" height="200" width="200" /></a>Disclaimer: I don't feel like I've said this perfectly or even particularly well. There are some things that I work out on "paper" and you are reading along. I reserve the right to edit or even change my mind)</blockquote>
I'm on a journey. Now, I don't know about <i>good</i> drivers, but for me, a journey is often unpredictable and sometimes I end up somewhere unexpected along the way. Currently, and by that, I mean for the last few years, I am journeying through the "whys" of my faith. Most people wouldn't even notice the journeying, because I'm sticking fairly close to my fundy roots, because there's a lot I do believe deeply, unequivocally. But some of my questions revolve around "the rules". What does the Bible say and what is Western culture? When am I operating out of fear instead of faith? What <i>really</i> matters to Jesus, because He is my friend and I love him, so I want it to matter to me.<br />
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One of my greatest problems with some of the current modesty teaching is the weight of responsibility it places on women. I grew up with some of this, living in fear of making a brother stumble at any moment. In retrospect, I think I probably overestimated my sensual threat level.<br />
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As teenagers we were taught, and later, as youth pastors, we taught the girls that they were blazingly hot Bathshebas walking around with their weapons of sexuality, slaying Davids all over the place, and we taught the boys that they were victims of rampant sexual desires with very little power or control over their urges. <strong>We also inadvertently made their sexual purity the central theme of their young walks with God.</strong><br />
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For women, there is a message in culture in general: you are a body, not a soul. Your power is in your sexuality, and that is your only means of power. Is it possible that we're presenting the same message in the church? Young woman, we say, you are a threat and a weapon against men of God. Fear yourself, cover yourself. It's the same message with a different application. Not only does this put women in an impossible place, where her very womanhood is a shame to her, it also negates the responsibility of young men to develop righteous habits, to learn how to appreciate beauty without sexualizing beauty.<br />
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Do we, as Christian women, have a responsibility to protect other Christians from lusting? I don't know if I'd say responsibility. The responsibility is <em>theirs.</em> Do we have a responsibility to love them? Yes. And sometimes that's going to affect the way we dress, because of love. Where's the line? you ask. Bikinis or burkas, v-necks or turtlenecks, skirts instead of pants, exposed ankle bones? I can't make that call, because it depends on the people you're around and, to some degree, their battles. I can say that there is nothing wrong with being shaped like a woman, and being beautiful and comfortable the way God made you. <strong>There is no shame in being female</strong>.<br />
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Men have an equal responsibility to love, choosing to see women as more than their physical frame, not placing the weight of their own battles or shame on someone else, because it's their battle. Because of love, a man might have to take a thought captive, not because of fear. It's about love.<br />
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I have <em>struggled </em>through this post, feeling like I'm missing a thousand things, like I'm not saying it the way I want to. Ultimately I just wish we could love God and each other and not live our lives in fear. I'm on a journey out of fear, into faith. Stay tuned.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-38385995476627327442014-09-22T10:20:00.001-05:002014-09-22T10:46:08.381-05:00Stress in a NEW place! or Vacation With KidsThis summer was intense. Maybe that term is buzzwordy, but it's pretty polite yet strong. I could also say this summer was the 7th circle of hell, but that would be overstating it, and besides, I don't know my hell theology well enough to define the 7th circle <i>literally,</i> if I were pressed. I could answer metaphorically, for example:<br />
You: What is the 7th circle of hell?<br />
Me: Oh, that would be This Summer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaiNGGTKdYi6pSEUTgBC4SefLo1S4cZexBgVcmkSSMSlhKgdOkat9xOrbCfcCenvFU48Zz_EOJ9MCHAwsjBn5KNmb4Dk3wyEsWUJo9HVQIQwdu5rDNJaAQAd7HWvOpEc63hGgS4GjPEZ0W/s1600/IMG_1867.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaiNGGTKdYi6pSEUTgBC4SefLo1S4cZexBgVcmkSSMSlhKgdOkat9xOrbCfcCenvFU48Zz_EOJ9MCHAwsjBn5KNmb4Dk3wyEsWUJo9HVQIQwdu5rDNJaAQAd7HWvOpEc63hGgS4GjPEZ0W/s1600/IMG_1867.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
It was intense. Somewhere along the way here I have lost some of my supermom powers. I have grown weak and no longer want to take my children out of the house as a unit, because they are stronger than me now. Not physically- I could still take every one of them down if necessary- but in a metaphorical mom-is-so-tired-of-hearing-you-fight sense. In my defense, one of them is HIGH maintenance. Or four. But especially R2. He takes school breaks VERY personally, and tends to throw fits all summer long as a protest and petition to be put back on the school bus right NOW. And the Man of God was gone all summer doing teen camps, which is a real job with budgets and meetings and stress and details, but also bouncy houses and hot dogs and hijinks. Not that I'm bitter.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Bm_c2uEeVbGWMDPdwWG_Zk08ICvEOJ4MvvEFYxyBHa0EI0wrQAYd14ihJBmSbWpamffBgBNTAt6j7XqqZiLzFOLLo8TivdIS9HCrMErwphUnggaMDC-kUWwmzEw9bffY0QoyYXeqtDBn/s1600/IMG_1992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Bm_c2uEeVbGWMDPdwWG_Zk08ICvEOJ4MvvEFYxyBHa0EI0wrQAYd14ihJBmSbWpamffBgBNTAt6j7XqqZiLzFOLLo8TivdIS9HCrMErwphUnggaMDC-kUWwmzEw9bffY0QoyYXeqtDBn/s1600/IMG_1992.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a>All that to say we needed a vacation. Lucky for us, we booked one last February for September. So we hit the road with the Clarklings and did some ministry and then launched into vacation-with-kids mode, which means exactly the same as normal life, except much more expensive and complicated and not in your house. Pretty sure they had the best week of their life, while we carried luggage and power-washed sand off them and broke up fights and dragged their kicking, screaming bodies out of the ocean at the end of the day. The MOG and I gradually developed wisdom about beach umbrellas and spray sunscreen (even though the internet said I would KILL them with spray sunscreen). We never figured out how to not get sand every dadgum where.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh3hdn0v2sT3iPCst8ZE7kqQfUHNvgHtJx93V-vKuk4hBAuDKJm7kEbZz84nObPHlNOubZi3fU1vDyo3FkfvIxIOc50r_LMx9NxMFT0M38XCPiTrqFnarVAq2RLYgGEzq0SiiHIMDRskXX/s1600/IMG_1953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh3hdn0v2sT3iPCst8ZE7kqQfUHNvgHtJx93V-vKuk4hBAuDKJm7kEbZz84nObPHlNOubZi3fU1vDyo3FkfvIxIOc50r_LMx9NxMFT0M38XCPiTrqFnarVAq2RLYgGEzq0SiiHIMDRskXX/s1600/IMG_1953.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
Now, lemme splain about Gulf Coast beaches. If you aren't <i>from </i>here, you don't want to come here, unless maybe you're from the Midwest and you've never been to a normal beach. We welcome you, Nebraskans. But the rest of you, we don't need you standing around looking superior, because this is <i>our </i>beach. Gulf Coast beaches don't have white sand, our sand is tan. Also our sand is not super-powdery, it is more liquid-cement like. It collects on your feet, and up your legs and into all your areas, and it solidifies and it stays with you forever, just like Jesus. It's a free souvenir for you to keep in your car and your hotel room and your shorts forever.<br />
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Also we have seaweed, unlimited amounts of seaweed, so quit being a snob about our beach and get jealous.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim4NrNfyzkwX1L0nhm1sMzREg-aw1shMVYA7GneTMsnuYdzZigR9oKoyB2ZnHUSp-Zi_QiQn67FVpvAz5FILKdyArnrjjzg_DxWo9IuVAXiqI472ajgdItW17gBsbB5ziXcFakssztbPgD/s1600/IMG_2024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim4NrNfyzkwX1L0nhm1sMzREg-aw1shMVYA7GneTMsnuYdzZigR9oKoyB2ZnHUSp-Zi_QiQn67FVpvAz5FILKdyArnrjjzg_DxWo9IuVAXiqI472ajgdItW17gBsbB5ziXcFakssztbPgD/s1600/IMG_2024.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a>One of the beach days, we stumbled back to the van with our random sunburned patches aching, screaming kids in tow and the Man said, "I'm just figuring it out- these vacations are for <i>them.</i>" Exactly, The kids had a vacation, and they will probably remember it the way I Instagrammed it, the moments of eye contact and hand-holding, the dinners out with us, and our attention, after a summer of surviving. I hope they'll remember it the way I remember my childhood, with the joy and the closeness- an awareness that things are not perfect, but things are good, together.<br />
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It was time for the grownup vacation. You're not gonna believe this, but we needed it.<br />
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To be continued...<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-21265474523300872612014-09-12T10:55:00.001-05:002014-09-12T11:14:17.438-05:00Osteens, Jesus and the log in your eye"You should have a reality show!" people tell me all the time. "Your family is so funny!" Every time, I think, "I am SO glad I don't have a reality show." I control the way we are presented, for the most part. I tell you the funny stories, the redemptive moments. I don't tell you how heavy it is to have a teenager with severe special needs, not really. I don't share the ugly moments, the bad advice I've given, so many selfish choices I make... I don't tell you when I really, really blow it. I am so thankful for the grace and forgiveness of God, because if I had a camera in my face, NO one would offer me that kind of grace. I suspect it's the same for you.<br />
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I watch these Christian "scandals" unfold, somebody says something stupid or they question the Bible in some way; right now the dogpile is on Victoria Osteen, weeks ago it was Michael Gungor. We, the hands and feet, the human arms of <i>Jesus Christ, </i>cannot wait to attack our fellow Christians. We grab onto a headline, an out-of-context quote (or in-context), a weak moment, and we rip our brothers apart. I cannot imagine the broken heart of the Father in these moments. Do we have a responsibility as Christians to hold each other accountable? Maybe we do. But I bet you when Jesus had to turn around to his beloved friend Peter and say, "Get behind me, Satan," I bet it hurt Him tremendously. I imagine Him saying it through His own tears, His own longing for Peter to be aligned with His heart, back in the safety of that place. I guarantee Jesus didn't feel proud of Himself for taking Peter down a notch.<br />
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The anonymity of the internet makes us all bullies. We can write an open letter, a scathing blog, and our friends will cheer for us and against our brothers, while the subject of our vitriol will probably never see our stunning, brilliant rebuke. What are you doing with your life? What is your time going to? Because there are some men and women of God out there, doing the work, asking the hard questions, making mistakes, sure- but making them in the pursuit of truth and the propagation of the Gospel- to glorify Jesus. We are ONE, guys. We're the SAME BODY, serving the SAME CHRIST. Our face to the world is a civil war, often an uncivil one. If I were an unbeliever, I guarantee I would have no interest in a faith that cackled with glee when one of their own stumbled.<br />
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What would it look like if we lost the anger and the fear and the bitterness? What if we <i>blessed </i>each other, <i>prayed</i> for each other? We need each other, we need all the facets that all the different voices and expressions bring.<br />
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Let's not be so eager to wound and destroy each other.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-61154616685127123132014-09-08T06:56:00.000-05:002014-09-08T09:20:14.095-05:00Social media: Stepping out of the screenSocial media is a mixed bag. I recognize its hold on my thought patterns, my addiction to constantly being connected- at the same time it is such a valuable tool and connector. I'll write more about the 2 weeks we just spent in Texas and in the Caribbean, but I'll start with my early-morning-should-be-packing thoughts about social media, or more specifically, Facebook.<br>
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I'm crazy thankful for the connection. The MOG and I grew up in basically the same county, maybe even the same zip code, for our entire lives. 7 years ago we made the move across the country, to a new state and a drastically different way of life. In time, we've made friends and built a life in our new home- we had to bloom where we were planted because life never comes with a calendar, and the new thing could be the forever thing, so there's no point kicking and screaming for the "old normal", there is only learning to thrive in the "new normal". </div>
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This trip "home", (to Texas), we happily stumbled into multiple situations where we were able to reconnect face-to-face with family and friends that we haven't seen in some time, for some, 10 years or so. The amazing thing was feeling like I was stepping into today, not trying to catch up on 10 years or 8 months or however long it had been. I've seen their struggles for sobriety, or their children being born. I've seen them fall in love and I've seen them meet Jesus on their own turf. I've watched family grow, caught glimpses of their new houses and their temporary pets and their laundry in the background. </div>
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"It's the highlight reel," people say. "The food probably got cold while that picture was being taken," people say. "It's a glossy misrepresentation", people say. I watched, during this time and during the cruise, and I learned, it's not a lie. It's a snapshot, and nobody wants to memorialize the snot and the sweat and the fighting. We all have that and it is part of our shared humanity. I'm realizing that even if all I have is the highlight reel of a friend's life, it is a connection to what they love and who they long to be, and we share that. </div>
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I'm thankful. The open window is a gift, an invitation to live our lives together, across the miles and the words we can't figure out how to say and our deepest fears about ourself. Bring on the selfies, I say, because I love to see how your face looks today. Take pictures of your food, my good friend, because I can't be there to share this meal with you. Post too many pictures of your baby, because babies grow up and you will never regret too many pictures. Let's live together, friends.<br>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-45084161829258323632014-07-22T08:43:00.000-05:002014-07-22T08:43:00.707-05:00building a man<div>
It was the first Vacation Bible School of the summer, and their hopes were high. I signed them in while they chatted up the octogenarians, cutting to the chase on family secrets and video game cheats. They had been here before, so they could talk with casual confidence about the layout of the building and reminisce about last year. We hit a glitch when Toby's name tag wasn't pre-made. Brynn had hers, and being a deeply loyal and concerned sister, she bolted for the sanctuary and her group of first-grade best friends she had never met. </div>
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Toby, bereft of his second half, suddenly got very nervous. </div>
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"I don't wanna go," he whispered to me. "I don't want to go here, I want to go home." </div>
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"Let's just go check it out," I answer, leading him reluctantly into the sanctuary.</div>
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We sit, side by side in the pew, watching the kids mill around and volunteers scrambling with last-minute details. I remind him how much fun he had last year, how he made friends and sang in the choir. </div>
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"I just want to be with you," he answers, slipping his long-not-baby-fingers into my hand and rendering my heart to a quivering mass of love. Every one of my kids has the ability to bring me to my metaphorical knees, and this boy has a death grip on my heart. I prayed for him, begged for him, worked harder than I have ever worked to keep him alive. Everything in me ached to grip his little hand and just go, go back home and hold him forever. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Shelley Paulson</td></tr>
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Something else in me, though, continually reminds me that these children, flesh of my heart, are not just extensions of me, just the rewards and the joys I have been given. They are people, small people-in-training, learning how to live and breathe and serve others, how to walk independently. Every time I drive away from them, my body aches like I'm missing a part of myself. Every time I pick them back up, they are new, braver, sweeter, still mine but increasingly their own. </div>
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"I want you to stay," I lie. "I want you to go up to your group and make a friend and spend the day. If you hate it, you don't have to come back. But you have to try." He looks at me, with the same baby eyes that brought me to tears of thankfulness in those first months. I look back, transmitting confidence and strength, pushing back any desperate hope to keep him small and mine forever. That panic, that wish is for later, when I am alone in my van. Today, I am making one tiny stride to building a man. "Go," I say, "go! You're going to love it." </div>
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And he did, and he went back and made friends, and then he came home and climbed in my chair, arms and legs and elbows and energy enveloping me in a painful, boisterous boy-hug. I take the hit, I will always take the hit, because he is my baby and I am his mama. Always. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-42226844020935475362014-07-21T14:41:00.000-05:002014-07-21T14:41:18.848-05:00going postal"I'll sell some stuff on Ebay," I think. "I'll sell some stuff and I'll just order a pickup from a postal worker and it's like RAINING MONEY." "Maybe I'm an optimist," I think.<br />
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Fast forward through 7 days of cackling "Dance, my minions, dance," as the bids came in. Now push play, hurry, you're too far if you're already at the part where I am crying at the post office, rewind STOP. I realize I can't do my normal digital postal approach because I have to have USPS boxes or something and I think, "I'll just take the kids to the post office. How bad could it be?"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Shelley Paulson</td></tr>
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Listen, new moms and drunk moms and moms who forget a lot of things, it can be so bad. Don't take your kids places. Stay in your house. Anyway, I was all excited because I bought this rolling shopping bag thing and I was excited to use it and all of the children were excited as well, so they started punching each other and pulling the straps off the bag and also just deliberately crushing orange crackers in the rug, because that is an <i>always</i> thing. I took possession of the bag and made some threats and we were off. It took 8 minutes to get to the post office, during which time I answered 14,000 questions about the postal service, stamps, Ebay and the government and a couple of curve balls about Minecraft.<br />
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"Listen," I tell my offspring, "It might be crowded in here and we might have to stand in line so just stay with me and don't crash into people, look where you're going and don't climb on things and try to respect people's space and don't touch anything and don't pee in your pants and don't be loud."<br />
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I once read a study or maybe just a headline of a study or maybe it was on a sitcom, who knows, the point is that young children have a tendency to hear selectively and tend to filter out negatives, so instead of saying, "Cain, don't hit your brother in the head with a rock," you should say, "Cain, do you think you could throw that rock in the river? You're so strong, I bet with teamwork you and Abel could throw some rocks <i>real </i>far and then we'll have <i>ice cream!" </i><br />
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And that study might be on to something, because they did.all.the.things. While they were crashing into people and fighting and trying to get inside priority mail boxes and climbing into hazardous waste containers, I was trying to figure out which box I needed, and how the what you're supposed to do, and the line was in front of us and behind us, all just grown people who know how to ship things and not bring hellions into the post office. By the time we were second in line, my Michelle Duggar vibe was wearing off and I was handing out some pretty intense eye threats and also sweating a LOT. The lady behind me asked kindly, "Is your husband deployed?" In retrospect, I should have lied. "Yes," I should have said. "He's deployed, and boy are these kids wild. Army life, am I right?" But I didn't, I just told the truth and sweated a lot more.<br />
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We got to the counter just as Tristan almost successfully broke into the glass Breast Cancer Awareness display case. "Uh, you need to go over <i>there </i>and do blah blah blah," said the clerk, who had no pity for fools acting like this was the UPS store where they tape your boxes for you and smile and tell a poor fake Army wife what to do. I gave 10 seconds thought to making a run for it, but the fear of getting bad feedback on Ebay made me stay the course.<br />
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Out we went into the lobby, where I taped boxes and ignored small people committing federal offenses while Toby, in repeated attempts to be helpful, said things like "Man, this must be stressful," and "You're so sweaty..." and "So, Rhode Island is an island, huh? Interesting."<br />
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Finally I had it all packed and taped and made some pretty direct statements to my constituents about what would <i>never happen again </i>while we were in our second round of line waiting. Again, they did not listen. Or more specifically, the smaller ones did not listen. Toby tried some generic pep-talking and R2 just obsessively pointed at the Spiderman postage posters while the other two tried out their audition tape for Supernanny.<br />
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"Okay," says the lady, "This box costs about $1000 to ship because of blah blah blah" and I just handed her my card like, "Girl, please."<br />
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On the way out Toby offered to carry the cart and ended up bludgeoning me in the forehead pretty solidly. I stumbled to the car, sweaty bangs sticking to my bruised and possibly bleeding head, while Brynn excitedly requested either ice cream or toys as our next stop, on account of their good behavior. I would have laughed but it was too painful.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-33185922789325580632014-07-04T14:05:00.002-05:002014-07-04T14:07:23.035-05:004th of Ju-lyI love this nation so much. I'm not blind to our flaws. In fact, I participate heartily in many of her flaws, like, for example CORN DOGS. And also in her triumphs like CORN DOGS and DEMOCRACY because this is the greatest country in the world. Happy Birthday Merica.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-75888334728363489922014-06-16T11:26:00.000-05:002014-06-16T11:41:08.000-05:00stomach bug: how the mommy are fallenI wake up nauseated. This is not morning sickness, I tell myself, because all of my friends have been puking, and not just the pregnant ones... so many pregnant friends. I think harder. No, this is not morning sickness, or food poisoning, or anything except the stomach bug that is going around and it has <i>got me. </i>Conveniently, this happens on the first day that the MOG is completely out of pocket due to teen camp duties.<br />
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Observation: I have been known to question the usefulness of men, but I cannot deny that stuff happens as soon as they are unavailable. It is SCIENCE. If the basement is going to flood, multiple children are going to vomit, a sniper takes out your back tire on the freeway, etc, these things will happen as <i>soon</i> as the male in your life is totally unavailable. They will happen as his plane leaves the ground or his phone battery dies. Feminism meets her match in those moments.<br />
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I make a goal. "I will not puke", I say. "I will do everything in my power to not puke." as <a href="http://biblehub.com/psalms/2-4.htm" target="_blank">God in heaven laughs.</a> My children, who have been awake for hours, catch wind that I am ill. "Maaaaaaawwwwwwmmmmm," they scream, "can we eat cookies for breakfast?" I nod weakly, because no one is listening anyway. Tristan comes up with his cookie for a little snuggle time. "I'm sick," I groan, "I can't cuddle you, I'm sick." He takes it in stride and does jumping jacks on the bed, crumbs flying as I clutch my stomach and beg God for the sharp knife of a short life.<br />
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At one point, I make a mad dash for the bathroom, closing and locking the door as Tristan bangs on the door and howls at the heavens. I kneel on the floor and am suddenly made horribly aware of the state of my bathroom. "This is the grossest bathroom in the world," I think. "This is worse than that Quik-E Mart in El Paso. When I get better I am going to clean this bathroom." Time passes as I camp in this location. I give passing thought to taking a pity-selfie but decide against it, which is why this post will have no pictures. #regrets<br />
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I do notice, as I scroll through Instagram while laying on the floor, that my husband is making a rap video for teen camp. Because I am selfless and very near the end of my days, I forgive him.<br />
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Eventually, I hobble downstairs, because I am the only grownup and the government requires that children be fed. I make lunch for them and feebly request that no one eat it in the sunroom, or the living room, or anywhere. As I stop by the bathroom before attempting the stairs, I am sure I can hear the sound of macaroni bouncing on the tile floor of the sunroom. I carry on.<br />
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"When Cameron was in Egypt's land," I sing to myself from my deathbed, and then watch an excessive amount of television, which is all gross. Toby stops by, wise to his power. "Mom," he says from the doorway, "can we play Vampire Bikini Bordello Party?" or something like that. I raise my hand faintly in protest. "Thanks, mom!" he cries, running away.<br />
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The MOG stops by with crackers and Sprite. It has been hours, so I nibble cautiously. Various children stop by the sickroom. "WHAT?" they say, shocked, "Why didn't I get any crackers?" I let them take one, two, many crackers, which I know they will eat on the stairs, crumbs stretching like a Hansel and Gretel path for all of the ants, who will eventually find their way to my room.<br />
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The MOG comes home as the children are being desperately entreated to please, for the love, to go to bed. He takes over, using a Dad Voice, and they scatter and I go back upstairs to collapse in my cracker nest. The day is over, the stomach bug mostly conquered and life goes on. Next up: cleaning the bathroom. Tomorrow.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-38435687687809491342014-06-09T10:12:00.000-05:002014-06-09T10:14:08.633-05:00Monday Blog Tour: I'm with the band<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've never participated in a blog roundup before, but it sounds fairly Texan so I guess maybe I should. Last week Jolie from <a href="http://www.thegraymatters.com/" target="_blank">The Gray Matters</a> invited me to be a part of a Monday Blog Tour, and I accepted. As far as I know, this is Monday, although it is summer and all of the days are a blur of all the things that all the other days are a blur of. I would be more specific, but I don't <i>know </i>what I do all day.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">What are you working on? </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Currently I'm working on a lukewarm cup of chai tea and a Seinfeld marathon. Also I am doing a few part time jobs online, and in my spare time I parent. In my dreams, I'm writing a book, although it's just a skeleton of ideas, desperate hopes, lame jokes and duct tape. </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">How does my work differ from others in its genre?</span></b><br />
Well, for one thing I would have a difficulty placing myself in a genre. I mean, I guess I'm a mommyblogger, a faith based mommyblogger, but when I hear genre I just think "Well, I'm definitely not Euro-pop-dance-metal."<br />
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One difference, I think, is my need to celebrate, not mediocrity, per se, but normalcy. I love telling the stories of the field trip fails, the cake fails, the stumbling drunken-monkey attempts at parenting. I wouldn't say I have an <i>aversion </i>to excellence, it's just I really want to avoid the glossy Instagram-filtered dreamscape that is prevalent. We're all doing slightly less than our best, and we need grace. There's joy in the imperfect, there's success in the failed attempts.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why do I write what I do? </span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I started blogging because I was on bedrest with a difficult </span>pregnancy and I didn't want to talk on the phone. I mean, I never want to talk on the phone, <i>ever</i>. But specifically when the pastor or a great-aunt needed the deets about my cervix, the appeal of typing words to the world in general got super... appealing. </div>
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Over the years, I have realized I write to make sense of life, or to make fun of life. When I write the story of the chaos and the crisis and I find a way to make you laugh at that, I end up laughing too. And then when it hits the fan over at your place, maybe you can think, "She lived through this, I can live through this." I want to make life relatable, the life and the world we all share. I rarely experience something that I don't think, "other people know how this feels, a lot of people". I have learned we are vastly different but so much the same. </div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">How does my writing process work? </span></b></div>
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Somebody figure this out and get back to me. As far as I can tell, I just live my life, funny things happen, and I let my kids play video games and eat peanut butter off the floor so I can write it down. I have stronger than a sneaking suspicion that the process should involve effort and discipline, but that's maybe why there's no book yet. </div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Who's next?</span></b></div>
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This is where this experiment starts feeling a little like a multi-level marketing deal where I hit up my pals for a <i>great opportunity</i>, but, shoot. I'd like to draw your attention to my online pal Katey over at <a href="http://www.sweetgoings.com/" target="_blank">Sweet Goings</a>, who I have never met in real life but feel super bonded to through crisis pregnancies and genius children, and my new friend Sara at <a href="http://everybitterthingissweet.com/" target="_blank">Every Bitter Thing is Sweet</a>, because she is a poet-about-real-life and a visionary who I like so much, and also because she complimented me last night at a wedding, or at least I think she did, but the music was pretty loud. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-51861622372499288302014-06-07T13:24:00.001-05:002014-06-07T13:31:05.433-05:00Evan and Rees, ten yearsMy <a href="http://radiantjess.blogspot.com/2009/06/from-clark-ives-evan-and-rees.html" target="_blank">twins</a>' birthday is today. They would be 10, and I miss them with an ache that has almost faded beyond pain. I miss them like I am missing a part of myself, and the wound has healed, but there is a wound, and a lack. I see them in the awkward lankiness of R2, in the blonde hair and quirky mannerisms of Toby... I see them in 10 year olds that ride past my house on their bicycles.<br />
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I'm thankful for the glimpses, thankful that they have not slipped into a not-really-there place for me. They are real, they are alive somewhere, and they are irrevocably mine. I am thankful. </div>
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I wrote this for them last year: </div>
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How many? they ask</div>
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and I hold you in my mind</div>
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like a dream, like a secret prize</div>
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In the shadows of my heart</div>
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you age</div>
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through a veil, through a glass</div>
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you are alive</div>
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my daydreams keep time</div>
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losing teeth, climbing trees, sweaty sleeping blonde heads</div>
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always with me</div>
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in the shadows of my heart</div>
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And I am so rich</div>
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with my arms overflowing</div>
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laughter all around me</div>
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laughter in me</div>
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but always </div>
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hearing</div>
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the laughter beyond me<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-40897462341225511632014-06-07T13:14:00.000-05:002014-06-07T13:14:15.535-05:00R2 is fifteen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZy6bfp8n3P8Q-BoQ5-fO1Yf6kW6RSkHbjG1AsxKzg1vJ1aUoMdQbUcCm4kLOfc2doBlrDxuCewXmZqc-ESr-lMaqADw-uW0pdvZr-s0OCC3LqxGq08HHl_aFcA3JCdnmX1-iJ4sbL5C_N/s1600/IMG_0729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZy6bfp8n3P8Q-BoQ5-fO1Yf6kW6RSkHbjG1AsxKzg1vJ1aUoMdQbUcCm4kLOfc2doBlrDxuCewXmZqc-ESr-lMaqADw-uW0pdvZr-s0OCC3LqxGq08HHl_aFcA3JCdnmX1-iJ4sbL5C_N/s1600/IMG_0729.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
This week we celebrated Richy's 15th birthday. Last year <a href="http://radiantjess.blogspot.com/2013/06/r2-is-14.html" target="_blank">his celebration</a> was joyous and beautiful, but almost in a whiplash-we-just-dodged-a-bullet-and-here's-a-party way. This year he was actively involved in the party planning. I had planned on having cake and pizza at home, until he specifically verbalized that his party was going to be at Chuck E Cheese. Oh, Chuck E Cheese, you overstimulating wonder. Still, the boy gets what he wants.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizd95MNNwS2Lha1xDRMorhkSw5eVwIyjS2ftwHvbyZ7m8p6tDcmEFHGel-Gazq-YcORq0Mng6PxE7SCb1yd96ObOS1uUZbLLz4KJ5RGsPJ8D5rqWNj5Z3D3TOoAmzAZJYNrkLnFmDK0zS0/s1600/10406567_10152445125558416_6450298739934799892_n-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizd95MNNwS2Lha1xDRMorhkSw5eVwIyjS2ftwHvbyZ7m8p6tDcmEFHGel-Gazq-YcORq0Mng6PxE7SCb1yd96ObOS1uUZbLLz4KJ5RGsPJ8D5rqWNj5Z3D3TOoAmzAZJYNrkLnFmDK0zS0/s1600/10406567_10152445125558416_6450298739934799892_n-1.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>(if you're new here, R2 was <a href="http://www.radiantjess.blogspot.com/2008/07/from-clark-ives-iii-r2-is-born.html" target="_blank">born at 24 weeks</a>, and last year he <a href="http://www.radiantjess.blogspot.com/2013/01/diagnosis.html" target="_blank">almost died</a> but he <a href="http://www.radiantjess.blogspot.com/2013/03/miracles.html" target="_blank">DIDN'T</a> <catch up links :D )<br />
<br />
I have a FIFTEEN year old. I think that might make me super old. I met R1 when <i>I</i> was 15. Weird.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdUGd_qSG5xVjS84i9Vl8B5SdcgkAk3cPmLT3MBF4xi1sYW3SAd5wjmae-PpSojo5VE_NbZ3cGXgzBsFHxco57A_hF-Cg4jO6NeQuz_nQyQEGAJuldv9Pyr8sypIeZz-m2cgiEreWIZjW/s1600/IMG_0725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdUGd_qSG5xVjS84i9Vl8B5SdcgkAk3cPmLT3MBF4xi1sYW3SAd5wjmae-PpSojo5VE_NbZ3cGXgzBsFHxco57A_hF-Cg4jO6NeQuz_nQyQEGAJuldv9Pyr8sypIeZz-m2cgiEreWIZjW/s1600/IMG_0725.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a>I made a Monsters, Inc. cake... well, I made a cake that was vaguely reminiscent of Sulley's fur. R2 can't see very well anyway, so I think he was very impressed. He ate 3 slices, so you tell me. The staff at CEC was super accommodating, maybe because we were there at a pretty chill time of day, or maybe because R2 was in such a celebratory mood. He stalked Chuck E around the restaurant and finally got his picture taken.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXM5bYc8LjyfRY6bqHGyKXcJcP-XLabJWqUDYTOnXXWK_Ic70vvH_iMSEN7HTks6p5li9OjjrDhi3szWPdGhyphenhyphenZYYNoAVKGtPJ9jZBP3XT760ThDn_kuU76sodqeeei4rJPBde3KVoruQYK/s1600/IMG_0737.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXM5bYc8LjyfRY6bqHGyKXcJcP-XLabJWqUDYTOnXXWK_Ic70vvH_iMSEN7HTks6p5li9OjjrDhi3szWPdGhyphenhyphenZYYNoAVKGtPJ9jZBP3XT760ThDn_kuU76sodqeeei4rJPBde3KVoruQYK/s1600/IMG_0737.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
It was a joyful, busy, noisy birthday. I feel like the fog of his illness has lifted to the point that we can really enjoy him and his quirks. A friend texted me after the party to ask how it went and I called it "a perfect day". I meant it. If we have 5 years or 50 with Richy, this memory will stand as a day that he was truly happy and enjoyed.<br />
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Happy Birthday to my first baby!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-50401080171246460002014-06-03T16:08:00.000-05:002014-06-03T16:54:13.062-05:00swimsuit shopping: or praying for snow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vvSB7Ep3ycjlUIkEI6db81OuJGIxAdxi46GqM6pgV4_LOf9f5-UEPpSejY9qF6TS-U-WbNI2A0tg9l70F4VKJSTKMxFoKmpV0sm5hOsaZISjhOTeH4eEC-44r0a009LUrJAD7TpATxYo/s1600/shopping.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vvSB7Ep3ycjlUIkEI6db81OuJGIxAdxi46GqM6pgV4_LOf9f5-UEPpSejY9qF6TS-U-WbNI2A0tg9l70F4VKJSTKMxFoKmpV0sm5hOsaZISjhOTeH4eEC-44r0a009LUrJAD7TpATxYo/s1600/shopping.jpeg" height="200" title="" width="200" /></a><br />
It's swimsuit season, I guess. Every year I think about taking a spin back to the 1920's when we got to cover up all of our reproductive organs when we went out in the sun, but I don't want to look like a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/19KidsandCounting" target="_blank">Duggar</a>. I mean, I heart the Duggars. If my kids wanted to marry Duggar stock, I would give a hearty Baptist thumbs-up. Side hugs errwhere. But I don't really want to <i>look </i>like a Duggar.<br />
<br />
Every year this time, I think, "maybe I will find something that looks great." and I go to stores and try on swimsuits and all my flesh is like WHYYYY THE LIGHT and I put my jeans back on and eat nachos in my bed with the lights off.<br />
<br />
Now maybe you're saying modesty modesty modesty over like a mantra and I get it. I chanted that for years and once my daughter (God help us) gets older, I'm sure I will start a whole foundation for the eradication of "mixed bathing" and bring back the burkini. Until then, I'm just going to try to find a swimsuit that, from at least one angle, does not look like I am smuggling play dough sculptures inside my leg-skin and also that masks the fact that I <i>stay </i>5 months pregnant.<br />
<br />
I am relatively skinny. I'm absurdly short and relatively skinny. I am not terribly fit, however. So when I see articles about "The Perfect Swimsuit For Your Problem Area(s)" or "These Plus-Sized Women Tried On Bikinis, But You Won't Believe What Happened Next!", sign me up. I will READ that article.<br />
<br />
And that is how I discovered that I am a plus-sized woman. Technically I'm a size 7, or a 4 in especially kind clothes, but the women in these articles, these Bounteous Beauties look.like.me. Actually, they look like me if I had a little bit of Photoshop work and better hair. I have a sneaking suspicion this is not technically plus-sized, but I'm going with it.<br />
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No more dithering between the Junior Prostitute and Corporate Grandma sections of the department store. I'm going straight to Woman's World and I am going to FIND the perfect swimsuit and try it on.<br />
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Feel free to join me afterwards for nachos.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-60200068132614712752014-06-02T11:31:00.001-05:002014-06-02T11:31:57.258-05:00summer: what have I doneLast summer comes to me in a dreamy kind of haze. "Remember?" it asks, gauzy linen sleeves blowing in the wind, "remember the <i>memories?</i> dreamy days in the park, laughing together at the movies, exploring the city hand in hand? Remember?" I do, faintly. I remember it like that. Also I very faintly remember sweating a lot and crying in the car after a particularly strenuous movie outing... but most of the memories are sweet.<br />
<br />
Already, the chubbiness has slipped away and I find myself grasping the slender hand of an older child, a child who is pulling away toward independence. Already the baby laughter of last year has changed, the closeness of just me and them has changed as they make friends and learn the world. Already they are growing and I am not ready.<br />
<br />
I made the summer schedule, all the camps and lessons and vacation Bible schools. My stomach sank as I realized they'll spend half their days away. Maybe I'll cancel some things, I thought, dreaming of snow cones and togetherness. I'll cancel things and we'll go to the zoo, to the water park. We'll rent a movie and make heaping bowls of popcorn. Tomorrow, I think, we will begin. Family Memory Summer '14, game on.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXvAa_P8ZaK-tUJj4O8IxDzObVN55ZpuSo_zq7tE7ofEnoYNXoTuPrftevLC-CNZcRzWwcmw5DjI5xW9JbjwfOWRZXWdOT_TtIbIEWQ6TDO5dRIfRZlshucYNk-UqHt06us_KP06t-UV6/s640/blogger-image-477045440.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXvAa_P8ZaK-tUJj4O8IxDzObVN55ZpuSo_zq7tE7ofEnoYNXoTuPrftevLC-CNZcRzWwcmw5DjI5xW9JbjwfOWRZXWdOT_TtIbIEWQ6TDO5dRIfRZlshucYNk-UqHt06us_KP06t-UV6/s320/blogger-image-477045440.jpg" width="240" /></a>7 am on the first weekday of summer: I am awakened by a foot in my face. Tristan is asleep in my bed, Darth Vader undies and a train clutched in his fist. Downstairs, the natives battle it out over Super Mario Super Mega Something Or Other 12. I pretend I am asleep.<br />
<br />
9 am: the natives are offered cereal. They don't like cereal. The oldest wakes up from the screaming. "When is my birthday when when when when when cake chuck e cheese birthday when when when change my diaper" he sends via brain waves. "I don't like cereal either" he sends and it lands directly on my central nervous system.<br />
<br />
9:04 am the cereal is gone. I step in pee.<br />
<br />
9:05 am: everyone is very, very bored. I send them outside to play in the kiddie pool. They are entranced.<br />
<br />
9:07 am: bored. hungry. bored.<br />
<br />
Vacation Bible School is starting to look pretty good.<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048726941985148264.post-21860947742270890092014-05-13T11:32:00.000-05:002014-05-13T11:32:42.355-05:00concrete/sand/humanPart of my soul thrives in a city, with its concrete borders and the cacophony of street performers. Cities speak my primary language, color and chaos. This, the most familiar part of my heart, is like an abstract painting with slashes of red and blue intersecting haphazardly. I love cities.<div>
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<div>
In the city, strangers gather in groups and in families. The architecture, the excitement, the risk, all entirely human. The city current pushes us along sidewalks, in and out of shops, across crowded streets. In a city I am part of a collective, sharing air and sight and sound with the crowd. </div>
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I love the crush of humanity, the shared experience and the flavor of a hundred cultures in a single block. In the city, my heart reminds me that I am so human. </div>
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The ocean says something different. It speaks to something I'm less aware of. I find myself reaching for the boundaries, trying to find the edges of my world. There are no edges, the world stretching beyond my vision, beyond my understanding.</div>
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By the ocean, we stand alone. I climb the rocks, going to the end of the world I know. This is it, the edge, the furthest I can walk before I leave the most connected parts of land. I squint at the horizon, desperately alone and terribly small. This is bigger than me, I think, and I grieve. </div>
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Behind me, a beach ball rolls across the sand, disconnected from my longing for the deep. The waves lap across my feet, every one changing the shore. Where has this water come from, I think, as the sun beats against my skin, skin I did not create and do not understand. My toes dig into the sand and their impact is immediately erased. </div>
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All around me, the deep blues and long stretches of beige, like the loneliness and the tragedy. I let the sun heal me, the waves remind me. I listen to the silence and I understand, I am not only human, but more.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11562412026738756677noreply@blogger.com0