We're doing the midnight bed dance again because the truth is: no one really knows where we are. Living out of suitcases for over a month, in our 4th round of beds in as many weeks, children bump on the floor in the night and cry out. They don't remember where the toilet is, where our room is, where home is. It's all we can do to spoon them back to sleep, propping our heads up on thin pillows, arms under their weary necks. It's all we can do to set an alarm, find a clean bowl, drive them to a new school.

The exciting adventure of our days gives way to fitful dreams and midnight cries.

I was praying for them, the night before we sent them to school, when we knew where we would settle but weren't quite settled there yet. We faced a long commute, an alarm set before dawn, and I woke at 4 unable to sleep, praying, praying, praying over them. My inclination, my first instinct is to pray, "Lord, keep them safe." But I thought, if that was our only priority, surely we wouldn't uproot them, put them on planes and trains, walk them through the doors of another new school. No, it's not safety we want for them.

It's courage. And faith.

So instead I prayed, "Lord, make them brave." It didn't put me back to sleep, but it put my heart in its place and my hope up high. Oh, I want them to be brave, to know they can, to wonder and doubt and cry a bit maybe (it's hard to be brave if nothing at all is scary), to know when they fall off the bed they'll be found and carried to safety, to hear the wind and see the rain and still long to run outside and face the storm.

Oh, God, give them courage. Make them brave. And give me strength to spoon them to sleep once more.



From January 2013

***

These are a few of my favourite posts from this year, things I've written during this epic phase of resettling in Ireland. If you blog, leave me a comment below with a favourite post of yours from this year. Would love to read how you saw yourself and those around you in 2013.

How stupid gets washed away

When I was nine I spent approximately three weeks laying on my hands in bed, sick to near-death from the chicken pox. My mom may dispute the three weeks claim. It could've been one, or it could've been five for all I knew in my state of delirium, but it seemed like an eternity's worth of Monkees and Brady Bunch reruns, interspersed with Ducktails and chicken noodle soup.

I was somewhat new to school at the time, in our first year back in Kansas after a year's exile in Missouri following my parents' divorce. It was a nice school in a nice neighbourhood, but I didn't like my teacher because she wore an unrealistic curly brown wig.

She was different like I was different and I hated being different, therefore I hated my teacher. 

I also didn't like the fact that I was put in a reading class for "special" readers. You know, the one where they put the children who struggle with dyslexia (most of whom didn't know it yet) or near-sightedness or speech-related issues. I suffered from none of the above, but I was new and anxiety-stricken and drew a lot of slightly disturbing sad faces, so I think they put me in this class to encourage me. This experiment - the "encouraging me experiment" - failed when, in week three of reading class, I walked in to find scrawled on the desk in freshly learnt script:

karen is stupid.

At the time there were two Karens in the class, though other Karen was actually spelled Karin, so I knew it was meant for me: Karen with an e. I was mortified. I was smart and I knew I was smart, but I felt stupid. All the time. The stupidness and the smartness had no relation in my mind, for my heart almost always ran ahead of my brains, the stupid feelings preempting the smart ones.

And here, of course, was proof. Someone had outted me, had seen it, too. Someone turned out to be other Karin: Karin with an i, a 5th grader with gorgeous blond hair.

So you can see how the chicken pox came as a relief.

This week has been the week of sick children. Asher went down first with the flu and today I've got a girl with a temperature in the living room. She's currently using a roll of craft paper as a telescope, and even though her cheeks are flushed and her throat is sore, she is exploring and experimenting and drawing, all from the edge of our sofa.

My kids are smart kids. Jack is light years ahead in reading and Ella is kicking math butt. They love school and the subjects they're studying, about Galileo and Florence Nightingale and the Irish word for pink (bándearg). We discuss all this - and how they're actually thankful for it! - on the way to kids club. In the mornings we pray over such things, asking to show a bit of the heart of Jesus by how we act and treat each other and learn from our teachers. They hop out of the car and run away from me smiling, laughing. School and science and Irish and maths... these are all stops on the adventure train; puppy show-and-tell, sometimes included.

I don't know how they ended up (or are starting up) this way. As Jack walked through his school gate this morning, I stared after him in slack-jawed awe. We grew a person!, I thought. An intelligent, loving, happy person. Though at times he feels fearful or frustrated or sad, he never feels stupid. He feels burdened for the people and the things around him, for his mum when she's overwhelmed or his dad when he's away from home or the rubbish along the side of the road. The heart-burdens are positives in his book and ours, and the confidence that's somehow embedded in his psyche had to come from somewhere. It sure didn't come from me.

The girl, too, even on the sick days: she knows she's awesome. Smart and creative, too. She never cleans her room, she spends hours with a nutella mustache like a garland round her lips, and she gets angry like you wouldn't believe if you stared into those big brown eyes for any length of time. But she embraces these things as proof of her brilliance. I want her to stay this way forever, to always feel this strength within her.

It's too soon to tell with Asher. He's still our surprise baby, a hazel-eyed mystery.

Twenty-six years later I write these things knowing this: the power of feeling stupid can be broken. It can be washed away by something more powerful and elusive than generational patterns. Inside their tender bodies my genes flow, but somehow smart and independent and free shine through. Stupid dims in the background, overcome by a sturdier ground they walk on.

There may be a kid or two who write the words of shame on their desks, but the words on their hearts are in fine print, a permanent warranty against the lies of this world. 

I have them, too, written by One who always knew I was more than a label on a desk. They lay dormant for awhile, blurred by circumstance or covered with the scribbled drawings of a chicken-pox infested nine-year-old girl. But they remain, long after crayon fades away.

***

How do you see your childhood self? More importantly, how did you cope with chicken pox?

Oozing peace when Jesus calls

The eldest is preparing for a third appointment with the dentist in as many weeks. He's not actually had anything done yet, and though he's fairly happy-go-lucky about the "baby root canal" that's coming his way, the multiple delays and anticipation of the unknown have caused his sensitive heart a bit of anxiety. That's how he puts it:

I'm a bit anxious, he says.

Of course he is. There's a doctor and a shot and a drill (though we haven't exactly divulged that last point to him) and there's plenty of things that can cause him to lay awake in bed at night and be just a bit anxious.

Matt was gone over the weekend so our peace experiment was more like a peace mirage that hazily drifted before us on the horizon, a mere glimpse of something sweet. Yes, we had our occasional moments of togetherness and calming prayers, but it was hard to put into practice the idea of intentional peace when the little people outnumbered this one supposed adult. So the one thing we've managed to do (most nights) is read Jesus Calling together. I read it in the mornings and then we do the kids version at night.

And this book oozes peace.

After we read, as I pray over them and touch their shiny hair and beg God for good dreams instead of bad, I tell them: He's right here, you know. He is in this room and He guards you day and night. As all 10 years and 9 months of Jack look at me with a crinkled eye, saying, "I'm a bit anxious," we remember tonight's words:



Let My Spirit give you words of grace as you live in the Light of My Peace.

We are living in the Light of His Peace, I say, even in the anxious moments, the hard moments, the wild moments where two out of three of them are running circles around this house and the hacking coughs and giggling fits of the younger two overshadow the quiet doubts of the eldest.

Peace transcending understanding.

And in that moment, there on Jack's bed as we give thanks, we remember: He is so near; His peace always within reach.

***

I am no longer an amazon associate as Missouri has weird laws and we actually don't even live in the US anymore, so there's that. But I sing the praises of the books that sing to me, so there you have it. Is something singing to you of peace?

Of kids' clubs and extracurricular activities

Every other week, we trek to Dun Laoghaire for kids' club. During rush hour. Usually in the rain. At dusk. 

Yes, it can be an ordeal. Kids' club nights mean we're eating dinner at 4:30 in the afternoon and driving 40 minutes with three sometimes cranky kiddos. Homework has got to get done, and everyone must eat and go to the bathroom and take a car activity. And when we get home it's nearly bedtime, and everyone is still wired and ready for second dinner.

But it's worth it.

You see, we don't do a lot of extracurriculars. My kids aren't exactly, um, athletic (picture me whispering athletic, because this is usually how I say it to a new friend when I feel bad my kids aren't more, well, athletic). In truth, Ella is or will be, but her sport of choice will probably end up being track or cross country or wrestling and that's a few years down the road yet. Hopefully. But Jack just isn't interested. And that's OK. As much as I want him to explore new things and occasionally get out of his comfort zone (and his nose out of a book), I'm learning not to force things on him that he is not gifted towards. So finding low-cost, low-risk things they can get involved with after school can be difficult.

And our lifestyle isn't exactly routine day-in and day-out. Matt's work schedule is different every day and the car is not always at my disposal. Committing to a once or twice weekly activity isn't realistic for us now. Just getting homework done is afternoon-long activity in itself!

In lieu of committing to things I'm not sure my children will enjoy or benefit from, we drive 40 minutes to kids' club in rush hour traffic every other week. They play games with and get to know other kids, spend time with our friend who youth pastors there and whom they've known nearly their whole lives, and Asher and I get a change of scenery.

This is just one small thing that works for us, right now. One tiny bit of routine we can all look forward to. One more way we've settled into home here. It probably won't last forever and I'm hoping we can integrate swimming or a library activity from time to time. But you do what you can, right?

One more bonus: on a rare day, we get to see a sight like the one above. Like I said, totally worth it.

Thoughts on Compassion Blog Month and choosing to make room

September is the month for Compassion Blogging and I just feel stumped.

I love Compassion, love our Compassion kiddos (this year we both lost and gained one), believe in the necessity, the success and the sustainability of it, but I feel parched for an angle with which to add to the conversation. My brain feels clogged and my heart is just plain distracted.

These days, I’m focused on the three kiddos living in my home. Their hearts are the top priority of my own at the moment, these uprooted and displaced shoots. Oh, they’re doing fine, really. More than fine. They love life, enjoy school, run circles around me and one another. They walk with heads held high into church or school or playground.

They smile, always.

But it’s a delicate dance, this new life. Eight months in, now, and we are all a bit tired. Dinner table conversations are a bit heated. They are a bit short with one another and with us. In truth, I am a bit short in return. Tears fall a little easier than they used to. And they are not sad, no, just… weary, or frustrated.

I am so thankful for the country we now live in, for the teachers and the programs and the youth workers and the lay people who guide them, shape them, teach them and love them. They have no want for people in their lives, and for this I am so grateful. But still, my attentions are those they seek most… and when I could be writing letters to Daphine or our new little guy in Colombia, I am instead slicing apples or my lap is occupied by one little person or another. When I could be writing about poverty in Uganda, I am instead writing about bedtime routines and the way Jack lowers to one knee as he reads a book on the floor.

And when I think of Compassion month and the children around the world marching into their sponsored programs in their own uniforms and with their own school books, I think of the classmates of my children, who themselves are from around the world: North Africa, the Middle East, Eastern Europe. They’ve all come here, too, just like we have. These wee ones, uprooted and displaced shoots, just the same.

I wonder at it all… how small this world is, how strong the need for love, how children are so much the same, no matter the skin or the country or the language or the heart. I wonder what I could give to them, how much I have to offer them, when I am consumed by the well-being and survival of my own.

Can I make room?

Will I make room?

Our children here have ample support, education, health care and love. But, so many children go without, and as you know, Compassion aims to change that. Child sponsorship IS a necessity, it is successful and it is sustainable… if only people like you and me keep saying, Yes, I’ll give. 

Even when I can’t go, even when I have children here who need me, I’ll keep saying yes.



The goal for Compassion Blogging Month 2013 is 3,160. Last year we superceded our goal! Let's do it again.

Dear Sister {While you were out}

From Jessica:

I just asked Asher "are you crazy?" and he said, "I'm crazy about you, baby!" Love.

Ella is trading kisses for goldfish cracker for Asher. It's a concerning trend.

I showed Asher your picture. He said, "awwww." I told him what it said [we miss you!] and he said (somewhat indignantly) "I know that!"

Asher would only eat after mom named the halves of the quesadilla after Power Rangers characters.

This is how Asher insisted on eating lunch today... weirdo...

"We don't put things in our underwear."

Ella and mom had an awesome time out last night! They took a taxi home and last night when I was tucking E in, she kept saying how cool the taxi and the driver were. She wanted me to pray that she would get to ride in a taxi again. :)

This was pre-naptime -- it may have been a hint.

Asher just skulked out of the kitchen (because I wouldn't give him dessert because he refused to eat his dinner). When I got to the front room (where he had skulked to), he was halfway out the window. Soooo...

***

From Jack:

Hey mum, thank you for talking to us tonight. I love you! Goodnight mum! I miss you!!!!!!!!

***

I write letters to my sisters, and sometimes they write to me. So thankful for a little sister time (and aunt time and granny time) on this side of the ocean. And thankful they can put up with all the stuff I had to edit out. :)

Camogie Camp, a restropective

DAY 1
I watch for her, sweaty children in masks making their way from the clubhouse. Her pink backpack precedes her and I wait, anxious: Did she make it ok? Sid she stay dry? Did she love it? As she turns, her frown confirms my worst fears. Slowly, she makes her way towards me, her arm juts out, middle finger upturned in my face. Oh no! I think, Already? She's turned on us already? It takes a moment for the flesh-coloured bandaid to register. "I got hit," she says. That's a relief!

DAY 2
Fumble. She goes missing for a few minutes in the locker room whilst I wait outside, camera in hand, to take a picture of her with helmet and hurl and smile on her face. I find her crying on the bench inside, knee banged up, all determination and joy gone. We cuddle for awhile, get her helmet fitted, take a couple of very sad photos, then the smile returns. This picture is for Papa, I say.

DAY 3
The boys and I arrive early to catch a glimpse of our little camogie darling. It is hot as all get-out and it's hard to find her in a sea of small people with caged helmets and green uniforms. Finally we spot her and watch her stand there, walk aimlessly for a bit, and then break out in a dance when her team scores. "Did you see me make a point?!" she asks. "I saw your team get a point, " I say, afraid I'd just burst her bubble. "Oh yeah, that's what I mean!" Joy undeterred. She is pink as a grapefruit.

DAY 4
"I scored 100... no... 1000!" ...Questionable.

DAY 5
We are now both adept enough to get her helmet securely on, and we take action shots for the family back home. I promise to arrive early to catch a few minutes of her last match. But... I get that sinking feeling all parents get when they drive into a parking lot only to see it completely full, knowing that you must've missed something. Sure enough, it's the award ceremony. I spot her in the middle of the huddle, all shiny and exhausted. And when she finds me, I get two big thumbs up. She is wearing green, white and orange. Her new colours, and one shiny medal.

***

So this is what we did this week... plus drama workshop, plus grocery runs, plus temper tantrums in car parks, plus sun sun sun. What did your week look like?

wordless wednesday {Dublin Edition}

Flat Tire Tuesday

I've been learning a lot about my kids since moving, and I've also been learning about myself. Here are my top five ways to make your children happy in the midst of a new routine.

1) If you get a flat tire on the way to school, DON'T cry in the car.

2) DO tell them it's not their fault, take them back home, and let them watch Madagascar whilst Daddy fixes the problem.

3) If Daddy can't fix the problem, DON'T make your children walk to school in sub-freezing temps, especially if the girl has a bad cold, is wearing tights and rockin' black motorcycle boots.

4) DO take them to a coffee shop that is conveniently located halfway between home and school when you realize you are all crying at the bus stop and not a one of you will make it to school alive.

5) DO fill them up with hot chocolate and whipped cream, let the barista lavish them with marshmallows, ring a friend to collect you, and watch your newly revived and warm children chase their shadows in the sun.

By 10:30am, they'll be happy at school, you'll be home in bed, and you all can try again tomorrow. Join me next week as I continue to share valuable lessons from my crash-course in risk management and childhood limits.

E says: "This hot chocolate totally makes up for you making us walk to school. 

Sorry we never made it, but yum! marshmallows!"

J says: "I forgive you for crying, mom."

Ever reached the point of no return, unable to turn back?

Take courage

We're doing the midnight bed dance again because the truth is: no one really knows where we are. Living out of suitcases for over a month, in our 4th round of beds in as many weeks, children bump on the floor in the night and cry out. They don't remember where the toilet is, where our room is, where home is. It's all we can do to spoon them back to sleep, propping our heads up on thin pillows, arms under their weary necks. It's all we can do to set an alarm, find a clean bowl, drive them to a new school.

The exciting adventure of our days gives way to fitful dreams and midnight cries.

I was praying for them, the night before we sent them to school, when we knew where we would settle but weren't quite settled there yet. We faced a long commute, an alarm set before dawn, and I woke at 4 unable to sleep, praying, praying, praying over them. My inclination, my first instinct is to pray, "Lord, keep them safe." But I thought, if that was our only priority, surely we wouldn't uproot them, put them on planes and trains, walk them through the doors of another new school. No, it's not safety we want for them.

It's courage. And faith.

So instead I prayed, "Lord, make them brave." It didn't put me back to sleep, but it put my heart in its place and my hope up high. Oh, I want them to be brave, to know they can, to wonder and doubt and cry a bit maybe (it's hard to be brave if nothing at all is scary), to know when they fall off the bed they'll be found and carried to safety, to hear the wind and see the rain and still long to run outside and face the storm.

Oh, God, give them courage. Make them brave. And give me strength to spoon them to sleep once more.



I think praying bravery - in lieu of safety - is a scary thing. What scary thing are you praying for?

Dear Sister {Jet-lag}

Dear Sister,

I am so tired. 

You know how we thought, "Here we go on this great adventure," thankful for the resilience and joy our kiddos showed despite the uprooting and the leaving and the goodbyes? Well, they're resilient all right. So resilient that they don't need sleep or food for fuel, they need only a random assortment of videos and suddenly they're running rabid through the intersections of an old port town. They need cold peas at three in the morning. They need to push all the buttons on the under-the-sink washing machine. They need pillow fights and rice krispies under foot and maybe a black eye or two.

But what they do not need is sleep.

Me? I need sleep. Before midnight, preferably. It would be good to get out of bed before noon, too. And maybe three square meals a day. Do I ask too much, five days after moving overseas? Is a 10pm bedtime and breakfast before 11am unrealistic?

Pray for me. Think of those chubby, ruddy cheeks on the darling faces of my children and pray, "Sleep, you little monsters. Sleep!" 

I miss you.

Love,
Me.



First in a new series of posts entitled Dear Sister. I have four of them, each one unique, each brought to me in a different way. I thought I'd write to them here... it'll save me a stamp. Plus, I get to make another button!

I believe, and I know, and I groan

We wait two days before sitting down with him. We let it wash over us in stinging cold waves before we allow him to wade in with us. We are torn.

How do we share this? Do we even dare?

We live a thousand miles away, with no real connection apart from the children we bore and send off to school.

We are parents, weeping with parents from afar.

He is nearly 10 and his soul is a tender root and he knows - he knows - when something is off in our hearts. We want him to hear it from us, to ask us the questions, to share with us the fears and the prayers. Fourth graders talk and gasp and stories grow scary (and isn't this the scariest story of all?), so we want him armed with truth... and with faith.

We try to transpose into simple words what happened, when the truth is we have no words. We tell him it is over. We tell him God is here, right alongside him. And we tell him God is still there, too, in the empty halls of a broken school a thousand miles away. Even when it doesn't feel like it. Even when we cannot see Him.

And we tell him, and I try to believe it and understand it myself, that he is safest wherever God is, wherever He wants us, calls us, asks us to go. And while I know this to be true, my heart still groans the question, "Isn't this what their parents believed? Isn't it it true for them?"

I believe, and I know, and I groan. They are Yours, I say. So I open the door, and send them off to school another day.

Picture Sunday :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 28}

Learning to let my kids run, when they need to run...

Sometimes all you can do is laugh as they pass you by.

Every Sunday this month I've been sharing pictures from our family, uncensored and unposed. I don't know about you, but I think I'm finally able to embrace the happy imperfections and distinct personalities that shine through in every image. I would love to see some of yours, too!

Of cocoa puffs and cobblestone streets :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 24}

I like to think that my children lead a very glamorous life.

Airplanes and oceans and languages... strollers on cobblestone streets and nursing baby across from the opera house and stamps filling up the passport. These are fantastic memories, and when I load my children into the minivan at 6am in the morning for a 10 hour drive from our apartment to Granny's stoop, I close my eyes and remember.

Fresh, cold wind on red cheeks.

Our life seems not so glamorous now. A catastrophic cocoa puff spill. Pulling of hair and calling of names. Carefully weighing the risk asessment of boredom versus the dvd player. Sitting shotgun, in reverse on both knees, pointing and yelling and throwing paper towels and putting out friendly-fires. At 75 mph on the interstate.



But this is what we do. We get in the van (or the plane), and we go. We travel, we seek, we wait. We wake up early and get dressed and pack our sippy cups for the next mission.

"Mom, remember when you woke me up at 4 in the morning to fly to another country? The sun was up then, not dark like today."

Well, the sun is always up at 4 in the morning in Ireland in August. And he remembers... the 4am wake-up call in 2008 to catch a flight to Hungary.

Yes, these are fantastic memories for burgeoning adventurers.



[a repost from February 2012]

What adventure are you writing with your family these days? 

Bribing children, somewhat unsuccessfully :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 16}

I bribe my children.

There, I said it.

Yes, I know it's not really wise or sustainable long term. I know there are better ways to handle potty accidents at school or staying in one's bed or a chores system... actually, I don't think I do. What are those better ways? And I know this may or may not be reinforcing some bad habits that will perhaps come back to them later in life. I know this because I currently practice it (lose 10 lbs? hooray! now eat some cheesecake!).



So when our sweet strong-willed girl was having some washroom issues at school, I paid her - yes, paid her - to stay dry. A dollar a day. In her defense, it didn't take the first few days (what can I say? the  girl has a one-track mind and that track is "dress up in all the things no matter how complicated disrobing might be"). But after a week, she came home dry... not one, not two, but as of today -- six days in a row! Will I give her all $6? Probably not. She's not so great at math yet, and besides, she loves nickels. But she is dry, no longer embarrassed at school, and I can cancel our appointment with the child psychologist.

The exception that proves the rule: She used to stay in her bed all night if I promised she could wear whatever she wanted the next day. I will tell you this: when your child picks out the same homemade red cowboy shirt three days straight, you will fold like any good self-respecting mother would. (full disclosure: the shirt was Matt's at age 5.)

The eldest is a different matter. He is almost entirely self-sufficient, getting himself breakfast in the morning, starting our coffee (it's just a button to push; no children were harmed in the writing of this blog post), no longer writing on walls or eating books. And he really couldn't care less about rewards, and I have tried!

Jack is perfectly content to never see the floor of his room. Allowance is nearly meaningless. He acts all excited that I'll let him play a computer game (or three) as soon as he accomplishes the job, but within an hour or two of the initial bribe, he's forgotten all about it. I find him, 40 minutes after lights out, still on the floor surrounded by clothes and legos, reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets for the eighth time.

The wee lad, he doesn't understand blackmail yet, doesn't quite get the "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" mothering mentality I'm trying to master. But in a pinch, when he won't stay in his own bed and I find him at 11pm sitting on his sleeping sister's head, I pull out my ace: Wiggles video first thing in the morning, trip to Nana's, chocolate milk. In no time at all, he's a gentle sleeping baby bird in his nest. I try not to use this often, as the costs of this bribe increase exponentially in relation to gas prices and my dwindling sanity.

In retrospect, it appears I only try to bribe my children. It's all about finding that thing your kids will do almost anything for: money, Wiggles videos, and... gum. I think Jack might clean the bathrooms for some gum. I should get on that.


Ok, let me have it. What am I doing wrong? How does one get one's child to clean his or her bedroom without yelling or a bottomless piggy bank?

A hot mess :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 9}

We are a hot mess. All red, chapped fingers (me) and bleeding patches on back and legs (her). I had no idea what eczema was until I was 18, even though I suffered with it my whole life. And now, it is our whole life. Or at least, a big chunk of it. She and I, cracked and itchy skin, binding us together like everything else. 

If I could add up all the ointments and all the prescriptions and all the money, I'm sure it would be enough to cover our next five years in Ireland. It's at least enough to meet our very high deductible, to spend a good portion of our time and income at Target, to have a linen closet full of things we've tried, things which have failed, things I have talked my husband into making (homemade detergent and multipurpose cleaners). We are one giant science experiment. The variables are always changing, but the constant is stays the same: frustration (partnered with pain and tears).

So I have spent the better part of this weekend on the National Eczema Association's website. I had no idea such a site existed! (Yes, that is how informed I am on our fun little genetic disease). Did you know that Corticosteroids thin your skin? A dozen years later, I do. Still, they are one of the most effective treatments, even while - in the long run - making things worse.

Can you read the frustration in every syllable?

Yes, we are both a hot mess. But on the plus side, my sad hands have relinquished dishwasher duty to the husband. See? For every eczema cloud, a silver lining.

Oh, another silver lining? Here's a not-entirely-exhaustive list of items that (so far) have helped a bit more than hurt.

Detergents:
Dry homemade detergent (grated ivory, washing soda & borax)
Arm & Hammer (Free & Clear)

Soaps/Body Wash:
Arbonne
Cetaphil
Ivory
Trader Joe's Tee Tree Tingle

Moisturizers:
Aquaphor
TAC in Aquaphor
Curel
Eucerin

Do health issues drive you as insanely crazy as they do me? How do you cope with the cost, the time, the frustration?

Note: Post contains zero affiliate links, only personal suggestions. Consult your doc - and let me know what you find out!

A million tiny plastic pieces :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 6}

The heat is on. Our living room is filled with moving boxes (for fort-making, not yet moving). A million tiny plastic Lego pieces are spread throughout the place. Cartoons in one room, radio theatre in another, and Downton Abbey is in the queue for the unpacking and washing of winter clothes.

For right now, in this moment, we're at peace. And they are pretending and creating and laughing. They're happy.

And cleaning up can wait until tomorrow. Or the next day.

Autumn is here. This is how we're celebrating. How do you celebrate this change of seasons?

Compassion Blog Month :: A girl just like me

You say you love windows
You sit next to them, feel the breeze on your face
We have no windows here
Our door has no door

You say you love rain
Hearing it, smelling it, tasting it
Our rainy season is just beginning
Our sick season is just beginning

You say you love hills
and the river that runs through your city
I live on a hill, walk these hills
Carrying water, searching for firewood

You say you have children
a girl just like me
You say Jesus loves the little children
even a girl, just like me.

***

The truth is, I am so woefully ignorant as to what her life is like, if she has shoes, where she sleeps. But they tell me she sings and runs and plays hide & seek and farms the land alongside her parents. That is enough to imagine her running, singing, digging hands in the dirt alongside the girl I've got here. The same heart, the same fire, the same sky.

This is the fourth and final post for Compassion Blog Month. Our goal? 3108 children sponsored this month. It's not too late to sponsor a child from an impoverished nation, a child who needs medical care, an education, friends to play with and skills to live by. 

Will you visit Compassion right now, will you click on her name, will you change her life?

Compassion Blog Month :: Projectile latte in hand

I'll be honest: It's been a crappy week, in which I suffered from many First World Problems, not the least of which was tripping up stairs whilst carrying a screaming toddler and shattering (projectile spilling, really) a nice, cold iced latte in the process.

So when it came time to meet a cousin/friend for some H&M therapy - aforementioned screaming toddler in tow (what, baby, you no like H&M?) - I was awash in self-pity and anxiety. But we shared stories, soup and coffee (and cheesecake), she deftly handled the toddler who adores her, and filled me in on the latest developments in her life, including the 5 (five!) children she and her husband began sponsoring.

"How on earth did you end up with five?" I ask, with curiousity.

"Well, I read your blog!" she said.

Stunner.

Sometimes I write to an empty room, and sometimes I open my heart and words spill out on a barren road.

And sometimes - sometimes - accidentally and sloppily, something of value blooms, and this brilliant and beautiful young woman ends up with five kiddos from Africa and Central America, through Compassion and World Vision. Her husband wanted to surprise her and she wanted to surprise him, and in comparing both programs they just couldn't decide and kept adding to the bunch, and really, "You can't look at that face and say no," she says.

So this September, today actually, I'm asking you to visit Compassion's Sponsor a Child page and look at a face. For me, it was a face landing in my lap at a concert 10 years ago, or showing up on this here page, staring at me from beyond frayed red ribbons in her hair. Hoping. Pure.

Choosing which child to sponsor is such a first world problem. A really excellent first world problem. And actually, it's not a problem. It's a privilege. So go on, tell your friends, visit the page and pray over a child. Pray over all of them. Think about me and that freaking latte and what it takes for God to wake us up from the lazy, hazy American Dream.

They are worth so much more than that, God's children, desert blooms.


This is the first in a series of posts for Compassion Blog Month. Our goal? 3108 children sponsored this month. Special thanks to Karin for helping me wake up this week. Is it just me, or does anyone else need awakening?

I'm being committed (to Compassion)

I'm being committed.

Wait, that's not right. I mean, I'm about to commit to something. You all know how terrible I am at that: committing, staying faithful, following through, and finishing well. But I'm gonna give it a go again, for Compassion.

The thing is, I'm a terrible Compassion blogger. I get the newsletter telling me what my assignment is, and I sit paralyzed in the nice, clean chair at Starbucks, wracking my brain for anything of worth to say about poverty, about the orphaned, about Jesus in the the less-frequent-than-ought-to-be letters and drawings and family photographs I lick and stamp.

I am bereft of words. I am afraid of digging deeper into discomfort. I am lazy. And I am happy to just sit right here, drinking my latte, in a comfy Starbucks chair.

But we are in the business of challenging people, pushing them gently past their comfort zone, partnering with us in going and sending and sacrificing. So, really, it shouldn't be this hard for me to put my hand to the plough for these little ones (ok, maybe just my laptop keyboard; i'm not even entirely sure what a plough is), children we may never meet but still know through the short, shaky handwriting of a 6 year old or the intelligence and prayers for wisdom from the growing teenager.

So next month, with these two brilliant children in mind, I'm going to commit to Blog Month at Compassion. There's only four I really need to write, so should be easy-peasy, no? The kicker, the great big bonus, is that Blog Month has a goal: 3,108 children sponsored between Sept. 1 and Sept. 30. The most ever for any September ever. And that is worth writing about, worth digging deep about, worth praying and fretting and hand-wringing over.

It's the least I can do. For the least of these.

If you give to Compassion, you should blog about it. And if you don't have a blog, you should start one. And then you should join us here for the blogging month. There may or may not be prizes. Ok, there are prizes.