Reclaiming Santa

Yesterday, I posted about why I don't like the whole Santa thing.

But contrary to popular belief, not everyone who decides to not participate in society's story of Santa calls him Satan Claus.

I actually have had some great interactions with my kids about what Christian giving is about.  So, here I offer my top 4 ways to reclaim St. Nick. 

1.  Uh... tell the story of St. Nick.

See, yesterday's post was completely and totally (as in 100%) about Santa Claus.  The one from the "A Visit from St. Nicholas" poem by my relative Clement Moore.  Or that one in "Santa Claus is Coming to Town."  (A catchy song that will easily stay in your head for days.)

But this isn't the real story.  And even though we may not have all the details of the real story, we do know that he was a real person or people that gave to those in need in secret.  This, my friends, is an inspiring story.

But our kids won't know this story from looking at our culture.  It's up to us to teach it.


2.  Tell the story of Jesus.

As we're telling our kids about St. Nick, let's help them understand that his actions were an appropriate and natural response to worshiping a God like Jesus.  We give gifts because Jesus gave Himself as a gift to us.  Not because we earned it.  Not because we're good enough, but exactly because we're not good enough.

Something we try to be intentional about is helping our kids see the difference between earning God's love and acting out of God's love.  St. Nick did good deeds, not to fix his relationship with God, but because God already fixed the relationship.  It is only Christ in us that can make lasting work.   While anyone can give material gifts, it is only Christ that can give eternal gifts. 


3.  Go follow the example of St. Nick, who was following the example of Jesus.

Scripture tells us in many instances (not the least of which is Philippians 3:17) to look to others who have trusted Christ for an example of what our lives might look like when we walk by the Spirit.  It's this awesome and humbling concept that Christ speaks to his church through his church.

So, as we approach Christmas, maybe we could find people to whom we can give anonymously in the name of Christ.  If one was so prompted, I might not even have a big problem with saying the gift was from St. Nick (although I would probably give a small write up of who that was, in order to avoid confusion between St. Nick and modern-day Santa.)

But see, yesterday, I mentioned about how talk of Santa is typically focused on what we are getting this year.  The giving of St. Nick and of Jesus was focused on what someone else is getting, often to the point of us sacrificing for it.  So, we reclaim St. Nick when we direct our kids to thinking of others and providing for their needs.

4.  Have fun celebrating a real hero.

This is all fun for me and my kids - without the culture's definition of Santa, without a false character that we tell children is real.  This is what we do with St. Nick at our home and we have a blast at Christmastime.

We can still do fun things like the advent calendar and opening presents.  We participate in Christmas parties and my kids dance in Christmas recitals and entertain crowds with community theater.  There are so many aspects to Christmas that we can celebrate, and as part of that we prefer to have fun celebrating St. Nick as a real person.

Hate to Burst your Bubble Kids, but Santa's not Real

I've tried to think of how to start this post, which I'm sure is bound to offend some.  But I can't really come up with a clever way to do that, so I'mma just cut to the chase.

Can we please stop with all the Santa stuff?

Here are my top 4 reasons Santa should be nixed:

1.  It's a big fat lie, and kids need to be able to trust their parents.

I have this burden for my kids.  I want them to know that they can count on me to be truthful.  And it seems brutal to me to build up Santa knowing that one day, you will have to sit that child down and tell her that it was all made up.

It was all an elaborate scheme to have fun.  All a big, dishonest production to build up love and trust in someone that isn't real. 

I guess I just don't get it.  How is it fun to watch our children trust us while all the while we do everything we can to deceive them?

And why do need to lie to have fun?

2.  It's all about getting. 

Now, I'm not a grinch.  I love Christmas.  I love presents.  One of the highlights of my year is sitting down and ordering presents each Christmas. 

But I feel like most of the time Santa is just about the gimmes.  No one ever asks my kids what Santa will be giving to someone else.  They never ask my kids how they will bless someone else.  No. It's always the same question, "What's Santa going to bring you?"


3.  The ubiquitous - it takes the focus off of Jesus.

I was helping set-up a party today where kids in need will come tomorrow to pick up presents that local church-goers have purchased for them.  As I looked at the packages, some of the tags really annoyed me.   They said, "From Santa." 

What is the purpose of this?  I happen to know some of the kids that are getting these presents, and my husband works closely with a handful of them.  Some of these kids have never heard the story of Jesus' birth before last Wednesday.  And now, 5 days later, they are being redirected to a totally fake thing that has nothing whatsoever to do with what Christmas is about. 

4. He sets up a works-based acceptance plan where everyone earns their way in.

Santa actually is antithetical to what Christmas is about.   Christmas is all about God reaching down and fixing a broken relationship completely out of His own grace.  It's a reminder that we are a sinful people and we are powerless to overcome that.  Yet the story of Santa says that not only are we supposed to earn it, we are also all good enough to earn it.

Did you know that 9 out of 10 adults think they would be on Santa's good list, assuming he was real?  (There was an actual survey done that I heard about just this week, but I can't find a link.  So... you can decide whether you want to believe me or not.)  We ought to be teaching our kids that they can never get on the good list by their own merit, but "lucky" for them... they don't have to.... because of Jesus.

Rambled Grieving

It's too soon, really.  We don't even know who this guy was... what he stood for... whether he was making a statement or acting from illness.  Assuming that a person who shoots up a school full of mere children can be anything but ill.

But we all have our reactions.  I have many, myself.

My first reaction... that one that is unfiltered, that comes without thought.  Perhaps what people would say is my true reaction, but what I would say is simply my unexamined reaction.  It's not like acting spontaneously is more authentic than putting thought into what you believe, after all.

My first reaction was this:  Really?  Another school shooting?  Not in disbelief, but perhaps in that "oh, please... this is getting old" sense.  As in, this is becoming so freaking commonplace that it barely makes the radar of things that catch my interest.

But I didn't stop there because these are real people involved, and fortunately, I have many facebook friends that are more quickly compassionate than I am.  And they reminded me of that.  Real people.  Real children gone.  Real parents who will never see their child graduate, get married, have children.  Real friends who survived and will feel guilty for it.

And my heart began to break. 

But still I didn't stop.  I began to wonder about this country of ours... one that is intent on protecting the world with military force.  To remove dictators from power because of the oppression caused.  Yet that is filled with other forms of oppression itself.  Does our government harm us?  No.  Do I fear that my child will step on an abandoned landmine and lose his legs to an old war?  No.

In fact, I don't have much to fear in my daily life.  But what I do see that concerns me is this level of anger - and beneath that, hurt - that seems so commonplace.  And I wonder what people are holding onto so tightly that they decide the solution could ever be to murder young children en masse.

And I think about this country of ours that presidential candidates call the greatest country on earth, and I wonder why we continue to delude ourselves.  Because I am a patriot, but because I love my country, I admit that it is clearly, horribly flawed.

There is something deep within us that is causing school shootings to be something unsurprising.  It is something that politics can't change.  It is a need that is never met through material means.  It is something only relationships can save.

I am grieving... grieving because we are too independent for our own good, and we as a culture have allowed personal responsibility to grow into the monster of lonliness.  And the only solution on the table is political handouts.  It's not about politics.  It's about relationships.  It's not about gun control, it's about love.

There are children today who live no more.  And there are children today who will grow up with the anger inside them to pull the trigger on another generation.

And what are we doing to stop that? 

On Being Gone and Being Back

So this whole blog thing... ha!  It's been a little while, and I can throw that one in the uninspired pile of excuses. 

But lucky me, I decided that I don't owe anyone anything on this blog, so I don't even have to feel guilty about not posting for a few weeks. 

The last few weeks have been a rollercoaster of states of health... as in... I have been sick more this year than the last several that I can remember.  In the last 5 weeks, I've been sick for 3 of it, and the other 2 weeks, I feel like I've been moving non-stop.

It occurred to me yesterday that perhaps I have a small form of mono and that my other sickness (2 colds and a stomach virus) were the result of a lowered immune system because of mono.  But you know what?  I will probably never know.  Because I simply detest doctors.

The last several times I've visited the doctor, I've be sent away with not much more than an "everything looks good!  But here's a sleeping pill, just in case you want it."  Never mind that there were symptoms out the wazoo.  (Which apparently is how you spell that because I didn't get that annoying red squiggly under "wazoo.")  Never mind that there is obviously some sort of internal problem with my sleeping among other things that were reoccurring, which frankly, are none of your business what they were.  I'm fairly certain that last sentence's verb tenses and moods are totally out of whack.

Anyway... so here I am, with another cold, self medicating with carrot juice, airborne and NyQuil.  Oh, and breathe right strips, too.  Those things are the holy grail of breathing.  Even still, I find myself asking... just how much mucous can one head create? 

And really, what better way to end a post than with that question?

Comment fodder:  just how much mucous can one head create?

Deviled Egg Vingettes

Vingette #1:

I toiled over the sink, with gentleness and determination.  My hands all too aware of the fragile treasure they were holding, rotation, rocking slowly back and forth.  Hand to hand.  But my delicate touch proved too rough over and over. 

The white of the shell filling the sink, which I would later remove by hand, since that one simple phone call had not yet been made. That call that would allow a simple disposal to be installed.  But I didn't care about that.  What I cared about was the marring happening by my own fingers.  The egg, coming apart, bit by tiny bit.  And over and over, it was not just the shell that was being removed, but the white itself.  That smooth, deliciousness... gone.  Leaving dents, even craters, in its place.

And there was just one thing I could think at that moment:  "Good thing deviled eggs taste good, even if they look like crap."

Vingette #2:

The eggs are plated.  They are being filled.  My kitchen is a pleasant room, with two smiling girls at my side.

"What are you making?"  my younger one asks, always curious.

When I tell her, the older sister makes a face.  She doesn't care for the name.  But the young one speaks again, acting in her typical way.  She is a compassionate one.

"We can change the name.  We can call them 'the yummiest eggs.'"

So, we did.  We changed the name.

When I was done with the filling, I told her that the cook had the best job.  "I get to sample everything,"  I said, with a smiling eyes.  "Do you want a bite?"

She did.  "Here come the yummiest eggs!" She opened her mouth wide.

As she chewed, she made a face.  She did not think they were yummy.

Thanksgiving Present and Thanksgivings Past

There are two times in the year when you will find me making something with Velveeta chesse product in it.  And this just so happens to be one of those times.  Any guesses on the other one?

I make my green bean casserole a little bit differently than most recipes you see, by simply adding some cubed Velveeta.  It is an amazing difference. 

I also happen to cover the whole freaking thing in the fried onion rings.  That is not how the picture on the container shows you to do it.  And let me tell you, if you follow the picture on the container... you are missing out.  I love the onion rings.

The last two years, I haven't done anything for Thanksgiving.  I mean, I celebrated and ate, but we were blessed to have two different families invite us over and lavish food on us without requiring a thing in return.

2 years ago today, I was just returning from a 10-day trip to India.  And my beautiful friend Carissa asked us to please come over and rest while she provided Thanksgiving for us. 

Last year, we gave thanks with a house full of people from around the world.  Well, okay.  Just people from the US and Ghana.  But it was still fun.  That was hosted by the amazing Ruby. 

So, this year, after two years off of cooking, I'm excited to be having my dad come down to celebrate with us and to cook the spread. 

Preparations started today.  The Velveeta has been cubed.

On Worshipping Others and Not Finding Rest

This blog was unapologetically designed as my personal blog, in which I say things about myself.  It is a window into my life... a glimpse of what I do (duh... hence the name, folks!)

So, you wanna know what I do?

I worship people more than I worship Jesus.  Not always.  Maybe not even mostly.  But sometimes? Yeah, I do.  I worship my husband.  I worship my facebook friends.  I worship the cool kids in town (weren't they supposed to go away after high school?).

And lately, I've been doing it a lot.

I look to them for my confidence and my acceptance.  I base my feelings of worth on whether they appreciate me, include me, respect me, or have patience with me.

And you know what.... it wears me out.  I'm emotionally drained. 

Because they are gods that will never be satisfied.  They are gods who continually need my sacrifice, to whom I must constantly offer my best.  But my best is not good enough.

Today, I am thankful for Jesus.  A priest who offered himself ... once ... and then sat down, having thoroughly satisfied the one true God's wrath, so that I can come to Him with boldness, not needing to worry about whether I'm good enough.

And in this, I can rest.


For more on this, read my post from last fall when I reflected on the exact freaking same thing.

Let Down

Today was the day I've been waiting for for the last month and a half.  But today, I was let down.

There's an IHOP that I drive by often.  5/6 of the year this is no temptation to me, from here on out, it will be no temptation 6/6 of the year.  But since the first part of October, they've had a sign out that started with my eyes and over time worked it's way into my heart and very nearly stole my soul. 

"Pumpkin Pancakes are Back!"

Oh, pumpkins.... how many years did I waste not even tasting you as a child?  But now, I love fall for the colors, yes.  For the hoodies, of course.  But really, it's all about the pumpkin... in my food... all of it.

My desire for these pancakes only grew during my sickness because some girlfriends and I were set to go to IHOP together, but I had to cancel.  Only, I knew that they proceeded without me. 

So, I sent a desperate e-mail asking for company this week, now that I'm feeling 85% back to normal.

My company was awesome (blog post forthcoming).  My pancakes were not.  In fact, they were kinda on the verge of gross.

And, let me tell ya, they were were not cheap!  I had a Simple and Fit pancake combo with scrambled egg substitute, 2 slices of turkey bacon, and 2 pumpkin pancakes.  I also had a coffee.  After the tip, I was out $15.13.  What!

That was one expensive let down.  

I'm Alive!

If you didn't just sing that title like the song from Flyleaf, then please start over.

I don't have much to say here.  In my last post, I said something about being a wuss when it comes to being sick.  That was before I really realized how sick I was.  I only went downhill and was actually on the verge of going to the doctor, but then I started drinking carrot juice.  And I was better the next day.  Go carrots!

So, I've been trying to rejoin society ever since, and it's harder than I anticipated.  While the sick days were a form of torture, they were also a nice excuse to not do much.  Hence, it's been hard to start actually doing things again... things like educating children and making food for my family.

Honestly, though, I'm not really the kind of person that can do absolutely nothing.  I like to describe myself as lazy, mainly because it lowers everyone's expectations of me.  It suddenly is very easy to blow everyone's socks off with my accomplishments of cleaning the toilets or ...if I'm really feeling crazy... dusting the ceiling fan blades (no... actually, I wasn't feeling really crazy this week).

But in actuality, I do tend to get things done around the house.  Even while I was sick, I cleaned up the living room so there was nothing that didn't belong.  (yes... past tense....sigh.)  I also started to go through winter clothes for the kids to see which hand-me-down pants stay up on my incredibly skinny 4 year old.  

So, hopefully, feeling better I will have some things to say about stuff.

I'm Sick

Bleh. 

I'm sick.   And it's not really that bad, but I will admit that I'm kind of a wimp when I'm sick.  I kind of want to just hole up and do nothing and be alone and moan and use it as an excuse to drink beautifully hot coffee (which I did today, but Bruegger's coffee leave a whole heck of a lot to be desired.  Not to self: look to see if there's an Atlanta Bread Company in other parts of the city.)

I also use this as an excuse to watch a lot of HGTV and DIY network shows on hulu.  And to ignore that fact that I'm a parent who is responsible for the upbringing of children.  And to drink Airborne.  Let's face it: drinking Lemon-Lime Airborne is the single best thing about being sick.

I'm almost sick enough that I'm ignoring grammar in my blog post, but I'm not quite there yet.  Except that I did have a fragment up there (and here, actually), but that is a stylistic choice.

And I think I will end here because I am done.  This is every single thing in my brain right now.

Thoughts on Halloween

Last year, on November 1st, Huntsville's paper ran a story about a suicide that happened night before, on Halloween.

It was not immediately recognized that the suicide had even happened because neighbors had mistaken the body hanging in a tree for a Halloween decoration.

This is just wrong.  Seriously, any holiday that has decorations that can be mistaken for an actual dead body and vise versa is disturbing, to say the least.  And it continually amazes me that Christians continue to support a holiday like this.

I have friends that will say here that I'm just sucking the fun out of life and over-reacting.  They'll say that it's just a fun time for kids to dress up and play around.  I know they'll say that because they've said it to me.

I have friends who will tell me that by not participating in Halloween, I'm missing out on the hugest missional opportunity of the year.  That this is the best time to meet people and engage my neighbors. I know they'll say that because they've said it to me. 

To these friends, I will continue to say that death is not a joke.  Witches and evil is not a game.   My neighbors are there all year long.  And my kids play dress up with them in June just as much as they do in October.

I have wrestled over and over with the concept of churches having Halloween parties.  On the one hand, it is effective in keeping children safe on a notoriously dangerous holiday.  On the other hand, many churches are not doing this when they choose to throw a Halloween party on the Sunday before Halloween, which of course, does not keep the children safe on the night of Halloween.

But just as importantly, when I look at the church activities around me, I don't see any counter-cultural redemption being offered.  The world around us is glorifying death and evil.  The church is simply ignoring that part of it and not countering with any productive alternative.

If the church wants to impact our world, why are we not sending a message on Halloween?  Why are we not overtly celebrating the life that Christ gives us, while the world around us celebrates death?  Or perhaps we should be remembering death and evil on October 31.  But we need an attitude of reverence and sobriety toward it - a reminder that this life is finite, and there is a reality awaiting us in the end.  We certainly don't need to pretend that evil spirits are cute blow-up toys.

The logical question here is why I'm not doing something like this, and the obvious answer is that I am, as best I can, in my home with the sphere of influence that I have.   And I am writing here to help others see that celebrating the fun in Halloween without changing the unholy macabre message is no better than enjoying sex without the commitment of marriage.   It can certainly be done, but it is not the healthy way to approach it.

And now I brace myself for all the condemnation that I unfortunately anticipate from my brothers and sisters.

Celebrity Mania

A few night's ago, I posted about how old I was getting, and in my posting, I went to YouTube to link up some videos of some great songs.  And in linking up videos of great songs, I found an interesting "related" video, which was Eric's Clapton's "Tears in Heaven" being sung by everyone and his brother, including Ozzie Osbourne, which lead me to a song by Kelly Osbourne, and I will be the first to proudly admit that I had no idea that Kelly Osbourne had a music career.  I will not be so proud to admit what I did with the rest of my night once I found this out.

But I will admit it, nonetheless.

I spent the next 2 hours (2 hours, people!) watching videos of Kelly Osbourne talking about Dancing with the Stars, drug abuse, and weight loss.  The culmination of the evening was watching a 2005 episode of The Osbournes, wherein Kelly's drug addiction is discovered.

I wish that I could say that this is the only time I've done something as weird as this, but it's not.  I actually did the same thing about 3 months ago, except over Katy Perry.  Why?  I know.

Actually, I do know.  It's because these people... these ones who make crazy amounts of money and do insane things with their lives in front of us all... they are people.  And when I see things that open up their insecurities it reminds me that I get to pray for them.   I get to approach the all-powerful, loving God on their behalf.

I am able to feel with them, regardless of the fact that I only know what they are allowing me to.  I still know enough to realize that there is a lot of pain in the celebrity life, just like there is pain in my life.  There are insecurities and fears.  There are thoughts of death and regret.

And there is hope.  No matter where someone is, no matter what they've done, no matter .... anything.

Because our hope - the hope of humanity - doesn't rest in humanity.  It rests on a graceful and capable God. 

While the Cat's Away

So, Billy was out of town this week.  He got home late last night.  I didn't mention this before because you just never know what kind of creeper is reading your public, yet personal blog.  So, back off, sickos... cause he's back now.

Anyway, when Billy's gone, I tend to like to have projects to do to keep myself occupied, particularly in the evenings when the kids are in bed, but also throughout the day so I can just forget that I can't count down the hours until he pulls in the driveway after work.

This week, I decided to upcycle some scrap wood that was left in our garage by the last owner.  They were originally shelves in a closet, but that closet is now stuff full with a massive water heater, so the shelves no longer fit.

My project, which was top secret, was to create a headboard for the master bedroom.  It was only top secret because I didn't want Billy coming home expecting it to be done, in case I decided to simply lay around and watch TV all week.  Cause I do that sometimes, when there's nothing good on facebook.

So, this week, I changed this:

Into this:

I know.  It's amazing that a scrap of wood can become a queen-size bed and two night stands, as well.  Haha! Anyway, I do love the headboard. 

But as much as I love it, this post wouldn't be complete if I didn't brag about a couple of other things I did while Billy was away.  First of all, I actually unloaded the dishwasher every day and did not - I repeat did NOT - do so by simply using the dishes straight out of it.

I also dug a large hole in an attempt to remove a tree in our backyard, only to find the root bent at a 90 degree angle a foot underground.  This is an indication that the tree was a sprout off of a root of a bigger tree, and rather than dig up the entire yard by hand, I decided instead to use my drill to cut the tree down.  At some point, I should probably go fill that hole up.

Yet another feat of feminine strength that I accomplished was digging another hole in order to remove a fence post, only to find the base of the post cemented to the patio.  Yeah.... that's not coming up.  As a back-up plan, we will now be using the metal fence posts and installing a chain link fence instead of a nice wooden one.  C'est la vie.

In the evenings, and some afternoons, I engaged in muchas conversaciones en español con mis amigas nuevas de italki.com.  Amigas!  Who am I kidding.  I freaking paid them, okay?  That's what it's come to.  I now pay people to talk to me.  Line up, folks!

Too Old to Care

So this evening I had a little reprieve from motherhood and found myself alone in the car.  I go there often just to be kid-free.  I crouch down in the backseat where no one can find me and dip Nutter Butters in my latte.  That's not true.  I don't even like lattes.

I was actually on my way to my missional community/small group/connect group/E-group/name of the month for the event at which 15 or so people that gather weekly to share a meal and be involved with each other's physical and spiritual lives. 

And I (gasp!) turned the station away from the Christian music that we normally endure/sing along with at the top of our lungs.  It really just depends on the day and how judgmental I am feeling.

I found this station that was playing "Somebody I Used to Know" by Gotye (warning creepy content in that link).  So, I stopped.  The station surfing, not the car.  It wasn't that monumental.

The next song that came on was "Every Breathe You Take" by the only man that I would marry if Billy died prematurely.  I was pretty pumped. 

And then I almost cried.  Because the announcer got on and told me I was listening to Lite 96.9, the best variety of the 80's, 90's, and today.  And it confirmed what I'd already started to expect.  I am old.

On this topic, I may as well confess that realizing my elderly status happened earlier today while applying my makeup.  As I leaned in to blend a spot of foundation, I saw a grey hair that needed plucked.  This is not a big deal.  I've had some of these making appearances for a couple of years.  I've gotten over it, the same way I've gotten over telling a roomful of mid-twenties kids that I'm actually solidly in my 30's and that story I told you about when I was 5th grade? Yeah, that was in the 80's.

Back to the hair.  This morning it was a new issue.  It was the fact that after I plucked one grey hair, I quickly noticed 5 more.  As I began to tackle them, 3 more popped into view.  Soon enough it was apparent.  I have too much grey hair to pluck.  Which makes it almost official... I'm too old to dye my hair.  Because I decided a long time ago that I would not dye my hair for the rest of my life.  But that I would grow old gracefully and take the grey hair as a sign of wisdom or something honorable like that.

So, you know what I did on the way home from small group?  I listened to Eric Clapton on 96.9, and it was glorious.

Emergency

So, a couple days ago we had this little incident.  Or rather large incident that turned out okay in the end.  It's all about perspective, I guess.

We were outside.  I was enjoying the fresh air and reading a book.  It's something I do often. Amazing how outdoor play provides me with the kid-free moments I strive so hard toward.  The kids enjoy riding their bikes and scooters along our ridiculously long, though somewhat narrow, patio.

Then I heard a clatter.  I jumped up to see what was the matter.  Actually, no I didn't.  I actually internally rolled my eyes because I knew that Brian had fallen, as he likes to do.  I don't even think I flinched.

It was only when I heard crying that I glanced up, about to tell him to suck it up and move on.  Don't judge me, the kid is constantly crying over little things.  It's his first response.

(Note to self: The moral to the story from "The Boy Who Cried Wolf" is true.)

(Note to self 2: Try to stop using cynicism as your first response.  It is probably more unattractive than a little kid crying.  But I probably can't stop this.)

Unfortunately, when I looked up there was some blood.  Just a tad.  And double unfortunately, by the time we got inside, there was more blood.  As in tons.  Pouring out of his mouth uncontrollably.  If you need a mental picture think of trying to stop water from a fire hose with a paper towel.  This was the effectiveness of my attempts to reign in the bleeding.

Blood was on the kitchen floor.  Yum.

It got on the carpeted steps.  Not so bad since in blends in and hello! we don't eat there.

This is getting long, and I'm afraid you will all be sorely disappointed at the anti-climactic destination of this verbal journey.  Anyway... here we go.

I called the dentist's office, which was closed on a Thursday at 1:30.  Apparently, they take a freakishly late lunch.  So, I called the emergency number, which then paged a dentist who never returned my call.  "Hi!  I'm a mom with a kid bleeding to death in the bathroom, but please, just finish your Chinese buffet before tending to me!"

Meanwhile child is leaning over the bathroom sink so blood can pour directly down the drain.   We are attempting ice, but it's not going so well.

Finally, after another unsuccessful call, I decided that they should be back from lunch at 2, and I drove to the office.  We waited about 1/2 hour, but since the bleeding had slowed to a crawl, it was okay.

And the mouth is okay, too.  One tooth was knocked back, but was not loose, and it actually corrected itself over night.  So, now we just have a swollen lip and purplish grey gums.  I will spare you the pictures.

(I actually didn't take pictures because... I'm sorry... but once this heals, I never want to look at it again.)

Progress is a Good Thing

I have this little quirk.  It's an annoying one, for both me and my family.   It's called perfectionism.

There are times when I can see the negative effects on them, so I know it's there, but really... let's face it.  I live with this all the time.  Okay... ?  Like all the time.  My family, burdened though they be, are only exposed to it when it has bubbled up so much within me to escape through overflow, somewhat remniscent of a volcano, but not quite that violent cause let's face it, I could never muster that much passion.  I just don't really do those extreme emotional outbursts.

So, this quirk of mine is something that has been a life-long companion, really.  At times, I have been thankful for it honestly because my perfectionism has pushed me to do more than I might have otherwise done.  Other times, it rears its ugly head and reminds me that doing something halfway isn't worth doing, and there's just no way I can pull this one off well enough.  The result?  Don't even try.

In that way, I feel like I've missed out on a lot of experiences that I might have enjoyed.  But that's in the past now, and it's not really what I want to talk about anyway.

This summer, I found a blog called Fluent in 3 Months that I could describe as intriguing.   I could also describe it as unbelievable, although as I found it I wanted desperately to believe it, and as I continue to read, I still do believe it.

It claims exactly what you think it does - that you can be fluent in a foreign language in 3 months.

So, I started.  3 months ago, I embarked on my journey to fluency en español.  And I am not fluent.

There are times when I would look at a blog like this and tell myself that I'm the one that failed.  After all, it's obviously possible, as Benny, the Irish Polyglot has proven.  But I haven't done it.

But wait... let me tell you what has happened.  Only let me tell you in Spanish:

Miéntras, no puedo hablar español con fluencia, he mejorado mucho en los meses.  Antes no puedo hablar con cuálquier personas porque no estaba seguro.  Pero ahora hablo con mis amigos latinos muy menudo.  Mis conversaciones no están perfectos, pero puedo comunicar bastante.  A veces uso palabras que no son la mejora pero sigo aprender cada día.  Puedo entendir casi todas las cosas que leo y cuando no sé una palabra buscar para ella.  Mi gramática necesita atención y esto es que trabajo ahora.  Cada día, también aprendo nuevas palabras.  Un día, sé que haré poder a hablar con fluencia.  Por así aun que no tengo fluidez ahora, tendré fluidez un día.

So, today, I'm reminding myself and anyone else who needs to hear it that it doesn't have to be perfect to be worth my while. I'm reminding myself that progress is a good thing.

The Story of My Life

Mark Batterson wrote in his book In a Pit with a Lion on a Snowy Day something along the lines of "Live you life in a way that you have stories to tell."  His point, simply enough, was that God has a story He's telling and He invites us into it.  This seems to indicate that we ought to make our choices about life based on what we can say about it at the end of the day.

I don't really like this idea.

I get it.  I just don't look at it that way.

Because what I see over and over is that our "stories" often involve other people who become objects.  If our motivation becomes telling a story, it ceases to be getting to know people.  But these people are real.

I am real.

My life isn't a story.  It's real life.

Sometimes, my day is abhorrently bland.  Somedays there is nothing to talk about when my husband walks in from work.  Nothing but losing another sock in the laundry.  Other days are more exciting.  I may have had a conversation with my neighbor, maybe even one that delved into the afterlife and opened her eyes to a new idea of Jesus.

And it is exciting, and I will tell that story.  But I don't want to have those conversations in order to tell the story.   I want to have those conversations to build a relationship with a real person with real struggles, real victories, and real emotions. Someone who is my friend, not my project.  Not the supporting character of my plot.


My life.  Her life. Your life.  They are all precious, unique things that warrant more than an ulterior motive of telling stories. 

I Do That

When I was in college, I came home one weekend and visited my high school for a football game.  It was a cool evening, but comfortable.  Not one of those shiver-in-your-seats-as-you-suffer-through-the-misery-of-high-school-sports kind of nights.  Even still, I probably would not have gone were it not that my parents had the tradition of attending home games whenever possible.  So, I joined them, along with a friend who I'd brought home with me.

The memorable event of the night was a long run.  The kind that starts at your own 30 yard line and keeps going... and going... and going.  The kid dodged opponents.  He stumbled, but kept running.

The crowd grew louder with excitement, anticipation.  We sensed what was coming as he crossed midfield, maneuvering into enemy territory.  He kept going.... to the 40.... the 30...  and suddenly...

An obnoxious thundering came -- shaking the stands, interrupting my natural heartbeat.  But it wasn't in the sky.  There was no rain threatening this remarkable play.

The disruption to my attention came from my mom, sitting next to me, pounding her feet with fury on the bleachers.  She accompanied the footwork with hoots, "wooooooo"ing her team toward the goal.  It was a surprising moment, having come out of nowhere, just like the play itself.

Eyes wide, I turned to my friend to see a similar reaction from her.  We looked back at my mom as the play wound down, questioning looks covering our faces.

"I do that," she informed us.

Shock remained for another second or two until my 20-year-old self burst into happy laughter.  My friend joined me, understanding the subtle humor in the situation.  And I have never forgotten that night.

I admire my mom for that moment of confidence, doing what she wanted to do to support her team, regardless of the response she got.    When questioned, she didn't apologize for the inconvenience.  She stood her ground and let me know, "I do that."

She had invited me into her world, brought me along for the fun, and expected me to accept it how it was.  This is not to say that she was the kind of person to never want to change or to better herself.  She was always doing that, by the grace of God.  But this was something that need not be changed, yet was questioned by someone.  Why should she apologize for who she was or doing things that brought her joy?

There are things that I have been made for.  Things that are important to me and may or may not be what others want to see in me.  And I ask myself, "Who do I do this for?"

This is a new blog.  It may not last.  I've tried this before, but a common link through previous attempts is that I have tried to provide something for someone else.  I have tried to join the mommy bloggers, the social justice bloggers, the do-it-yourself/how-to bloggers.  Today, I begin by inviting you into my world ... un-apologetically ... to experience what I do.

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You can see my former blog life at This One Goes out to the Friends I Never Had.