Rambo's Rampages...

Do you ever look at your life and think, "Man, I have got it made. Life's not perfect, but I'm enjoying this ride"? Please tell me what that's like. 

I faced my worst nightmare the other day, guys. The make-up aisle. It is the closest thing to hell that my mind can conjure up currently. I don't know how many of you get paralyzed by excessive choices, but I DO. When I walk into a restaurant for a nice dinner out and they hand me a menu that's really 4 volumes of a freaking World Book Encyclopedia put into one, I go blank. Instant overload. I'm all I'm not quite sure how to cure that or if it's even possible. All I know is that usually I end up eating whatever Ben has ordered for me.  But, this time, in the make-up section I was alone. ALONE FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. Did you see the picture???? And that's just ONE of the aisles! Multiple aisles, guys. Multiple. Aisles. Encyclopedia-kind-of-full aisles to choose from.  *hides head in shame* It took me 45 minutes to pick out a foundation. And all the while I'm coaching myself, "Okay, you can do this. Just breathe. One thing at a time

It's Friday night. We've just returned home from taking the kids to the 4-H fair. A trip I was especially able to enjoy because I had the confirmed knowledge that Theodore's nurse would finally be returning to work tonight after 2 1/2 long weeks of vacation. Two and a half weeks of 24/7 Theodore care for me; long nights on the not so comfortable couch, long days because of the long nights. But tonight was THE night.  My bed, my glorious bed awaited.  And it WAS oh so glorious. It's Saturday morning. I slept better than I had in, well, 17 days. I go to greet our sorely missed nurse, wanting to ask about her vacation home, but before I can say a word, I hear, in her Tobagonian accent, "I tink you have dose fly eggs all over your kit'en floor." I did. But at least I had slept in my own bed. It's 10:30 am on Saturday morning. The kitchen has been thoroughly scrubbed, washed, vacuumed, cleared out, disinfected, lit and burnt to a crisp. Theodore

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. - Matthew 5:6 O God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water. Thus I have seen you in the sanctuary beholding your power and glory. My soul will be satisfied .... Psalm 63:1-2, 5 Sometimes I feel like I'm doing it all wrong. All of it. No matter how hard I work towards accomplishing something, it inevitably falls short in one way or another. I have been weighed. I have been measured. And I have been found wanting. Over and over again. Whether it's parenting or wife-ing (????) or teaching or organizing - you name it, I claim it. And even if all goes smoothly I'm left with a feeling of frustration or emptiness, wondering why I even put my hand to it in the first place. Did it really matter? I mean.. let's be honest. Did it REALLY matter?  Because if I were doing it

"We want our work to be known and our impact to be memorialized. And it will be, but by God alone. No human can give us accolades that will satisfy the  deepest longings of our hearts. We search vainly from others for the acclaim that only God can give." - Sara Hagerty, "Unseen" I don't know about you, but the older I get the more my life seems to be filled by disappointment after disappointment, one unsuccessful venture after another, failure followed by failure. And up until about 5 years ago I could have listed you a MYRIAD of things that qualified as my biggest fears, I could guarantee you that unsuccess was not one of them.  But now it is. Top of the list, number one for x weeks in a row.  Unsuccess. Under appreciated. Unseen. I'm still surprised by this. By the fact that it is. Surprised at how deeply and coldly it runs through me; how it has a hold.  It's not because I'm a mom (stay-at-home) or because

Theodore, do you want to go upstairs or to your bedroom? *Points indiscriminately in the middle.*  Theodore, where does it hurt? *Points to his wrist.* Which is definitely NOT where it hurts. Theodore, is that what you want to watch? *Yes* Or is this what you want to watch? *Yes* Theodore, you DO NOT pull things off of the counter. Go sit on the steps for time-out. *Opens up hallway door, picks a step, and sits.* I think he's messing with me. 

In case you were wondering, I DO still have a son named Theodore. He IS still simultaneously adorable and a pain in the butt. Lots of changes have come his way and are still coming for this little man, but here is where we are currently: Per the doctor's orders, he has been trying new foods so that we can hopefully accomplish a swallow study. By "try new foods" I mean, we are attempting to get him to put anything in his mouth and swallow it. Theodore acts like he wants to eat food; he gets very excited when he sees it and asks to have some. However, all that leads to is maybe a tiny lick off the spoon and then instantly wiping his mouth with whatever he can find to remove said food from his mouth.  Despite this, though, we have started to accomplish our goal. We have found a great sippy cup for him, we are experimenting with puree type foods and different drinks, and even succeeding in getting something into his stomach.  Great, right? Well, I guess it depends

Sometimes I'm the worst. No, really, don't try to stop me from saying this. **************************************crickets************************************************* Wow. Really? No one? That hurts, guys. Despite the many protests from the audience I just received, I must admit that sometimes I am the absolute worst person. Okay, not really, I'm not a mass murderer or a puppy killer or a fan of Nickelback. But, in the past, if my cup got tipped at just the right time I may have been known to slam a door or crush my childrens' hopes and dreams with just a word. Hypothetically. Unrelated: I may be starting to see why no one tried to stop me earlier.....   But there's something that I've been wanting to get off my chest. Deep breath. And go. When the kids were little, Israel the eldest, like Gandalf the Grey- very distinguished, would be getting his breakfast or possibly even helping the younger two get their breakfast. At this time they were

I'm 20 stories up stepping out of the window that's almost as tall as myself. The adjacent building is so close I can almost reach out and touch it. In fact, I am certain I could make it through the open window facing me with just a jump. But I can't. The powers that be do not allow it. Instead, I have to walk a tight rope that I'm not entirely certain will even hold me. All the while people from the surrounding rooms are throwing anything they can find at me to trip me up, make me lose my balance and retreat back into the room from whence I came.  Hours upon hours are spent here, nay, days upon days; until the thought of falling to my death is far more appealing than sitting on the stupid phone any longer to coordinate one more doctor's appointment for Theodore.  I would literally rather fall to my death. I'm not sure I could explain it any more clearly.  I- would rather- die.  I don't know whether it's bureaucracy or stupidity that makes it so

Two words: Sewing injury. Six words: Sewing injury not involving anything sharp. Did you even know those existed? I didn't. I do now. I've been suffering with this war wound for two weeks now, and I'm pretty certain I'll never have full function of my hand again. Okay, that might be pushing it -- a little.  For those of us who aren't seasoned seamstresses/sewists, let me warn you, you can seriously hurt the joint in your thumb. The girls and I worked furiously for 5 days, measuring, cutting, pinning, sewing, more pinning, more sewing. I am still paying for it. In fact, I think it's gotten worse. What started as a tight, muscular cramping is now a constant, dull, hot aching in the joint. I know what it needs, but the creator in me is not willing to do it. I have so many ideas swirling around in my head that if I stop accomplishing them I may implode. I wonder if that really is the cause of death for most artists- the inability to produce their inspi

Boo. *whispers* It's me. It's time for some spring cleaning. Digging this blog out from all the boxes and things of life that have piled up on top of it, sweeping away the cobwebs, and getting real.  This past year has been a tough one. Down to the bones tough. And I've had some pretty rough years- times I would never ever choose to relive. But this one tops the cake.  (Theodore is phenomenal, by the way. And other than making me rethink a few life choices as he now enters his "threenager" stage - yes, he's 7 - he is the man. So no worries there.) This past year left me falling. Unsure. Questioning. Crying. Everything, literally EVERYTHING that I had stood on before, everything I KNEW to be true, was suddenly pulled out from under me. I was like those cartoon characters who run off a cliff but don't realize it right away, and once they do it's a fast fall straight down.   I have been a Christian, a Jesus-follower, a Bible believer, WHATEVER