don't be ridiculous

Healing sounds ridiculous.

I know what it's like to heal after being wounded by another. After a laborious struggle the spot heals leaving behind an either embittering or empowering scar. But to heal after loss? A baby, a friend, a marriage... Is it possible to heal from that?

I remember when a friend lost her son. She was afraid her memories of him would become duller with time, making the reality of his presence even further from her grasp. I feel the same except I have no memories...no knowledge of this soul. All I have is that instinctive bond of pregnancy. A huge part of that was the hope of meeting him or her at term. I want to remember a baby we've never met, but in order to do so I must revisit the expansive hope that was dashed by loss. I guess that's hardly different from other losses.

We always hope--and typically assume--we will have more time. And that is exactly what we lose. In losing a person, a marriage, health, we lose the hopes and dreams of our future. We have the assurance of restoration in heaven--ultimate restoration of God's perfect creation. But in the mean time, we must let go of a life that we just knew would be ours. But in the end it was not. For me, a life so close to my own soul that I feel I am losing a different version of Me in the future. Even though I will continue to experience faith, hope, and love in my life, and this loss will create a Me that I need to be, there is a string hanging from my heart. It was so briefly connected to this tiny soul, and now it hangs loose....prone to unravel. Maybe that is what healing is like: sometimes I will completely unravel, the Lord will continue to knit my heart back together, but He allows the string to hang loose. That string is all I have left of my connection with this baby's soul. I am not clinging to sadness or loss, but I have to be willing to remember. I need to allow this tender part of my heart to remain, to be touched, to reach out, even if it threatens to unravel me at times.

sharing is caring

"While all women experience physical changes in their bodies after a pregnancy ends affecting her mood, a woman who has lost a baby through miscarriage faces another risk factor for serious postpartum depression. Not only must a woman endure the physical and psychological stresses that occur due to hormone changes, but they do so without any of the rewards that come with bringing their baby home. She is trying to cope with not only her postpartum changes, but with the loss of their baby as well."

~~~

The last two nights, I've gone to bed as soon as Babydaddy has gotten home. Then, tonight I thought I could do better but completely broke down during supper. With all three kids looking on, unquenchable sobs billowed out. I had to leave the room. They were already alarmed, and I couldn't make it stop. I didn't want them to see me cry that way...for that long.

My husband had just gotten home from work, so I let it all out. Tonight letting it out was a bit more than irritability or fatigue. Everything built up to the point that I thought I would burst. I realized I wanted to burst, because I was dealing with postpartum depression. The following thought came to my mind before I could stop it: this isn't so hard with a baby to hold. And that's when I fell apart.

It's been hard from the start to allow myself to be sad. I don't know why. It sounds ridiculous. And it was hard to let myself begin writing about it. But I opened the gates....at the same time my body began reeling from a hormone earthquake.

~~~

I've always felt sympathetic toward friends who have lost their babies early in pregnancy. So, why would I expect to feel 100%-back-to-normal hardly one month after my own miscarriage?

Well....why would I have also expected I would be able to bounce back, having no lag immediately after having each of our three kids?

Why do I stake myself to such impossible standards?

Why am I so afraid of falling short of.....perfect?

~~~

Two days later I have not managed to pull myself up by my bootstraps. I've tried so hard, which made the fall all the more disappointing. But fall I did. And fall I will. (Yoda I am not.) Realizing that this cloud would not dissipate at my demand, I was talking over the game plan with my husband. Our game plans tend to boil down to the question at the root of it all. Obviously, this question and its answer will not and, medically, cannot cure me or anyone of depression. But asking the question usually lends a very helpful piece of self-reflective information.

This is what we came to: I expect myself to have it all together, because it seems that everyone else has it all together. And that's the nature of the beast. We don't broadcast our emotional breakdowns; we don't "facebook" financial failure; rarely do we converse about the deep, dark struggles of life.

~~~

So. I'm here. I'm sharing my struggle. I'll talk about the darkness and the sadness as well as the yummy meals and happy days. And I won't cower with fear. Love casts out all fear, and I am loved. I am loved by fickle humans who I fickly love with all my heart. But most importantly, I'm loved by my Father. And no matter how disconnected I feel in my loss, He sees my tears. He hears my weeping, and knows the silent ache of my heart. I believe He does. Even if I don't feel it.

good things

I still see good things all around. Some are actual things that help us settle in and make our home run; some are souls making my heart go tick-tock. My dear Debi (from Arkansas) knew the challenges ahead as we pondered the purchase of a home built in 1832. Before we left she gave me this gorgeous, glass bead. With an eye for craftsmanship and beauty, she had bought it from the artist years ago. She said, that even though we'd have to turn on our bedroom light with a pull string, at least it'd be beautiful. And that kind of sums her up. She sees the beauty--or searches for it when it is hidden or lost--and basks in it! So I pull this string ten times a day, and I remember to look through Debi's eyes and laugh at the quirks of this old home. I mean, my husband is old, but am I going to toss him out? *wink*

We found this secretary's desk on our search for a dresser. Throwing it in with the dresser allowed us to get a good deal--which we are ALL about! So I have a wonderful, functional piece with history to replace the IKEA desk we've used for years. I've loved that IKEA desk, but our little interior needs all the support it can get--especially from the furnishings. Notice the wood paneling? Thankfully they only covered two rooms with that trash. It will get painted until we can rip it down and absorb whatever cost lies behind. *gulp*

The inside is even cooler than the outside! Not sure what "homeschool" supplies will fit in those slots yet. But the kids love the secret door in the center.

And this is the dresser! I don't think I've had a dresser since I was a child, basically. I've always made my closets work--with the help of plastic bins. But, get this, our closet sucks. :) So my clothes have been in a suitcase and boxes since we got here. Not very pleasing aesthetically...or functionally. After many weeks of searching, we found the perfect dresser. And I kind of love it. It's a merry Christmas to me.

I recently went to Vermont with a gal pal. The door latch above was on the front door of our B&B. I took a picture because all the doors in our house have these latches--in need of TLC, but still, they're here. I wasn't really appreciating them at first--I hoped for original hardware, but I didn't know quite what to expect. I guess I expected a true antique that worked exactly the way I wanted. See, these latches don't have locks. Imagine our guests' anxiety at the thought of a rambunctious five year old barging in on their very private bathroom business. We'll figure that out in time.

Now onto the souls who make this home run...

Li'l Bit has been itching to cook lately. On this particular morning she had me make pancakes so she could make Pancake Bunnies for everyone. The kids loved it! She's been doing a lot of work in the kitchen since then, which I'm trying to allow and enjoy. Right now I have to watch her every move, and I could do it so much more efficiently by myself. But she loves cooking. And maybe one day....*dreamy music begins*.....I'll actually be able to say, Hey, Cav, will you cook dinner tonight? And then I can just sit on the couch and drink some wine. In, like, 5 years.

We've had a very mild Fall. It's been warm WAY more than it's been cold. But right after our October snow, the kids had a few cold mornings. One day, our boiler wasn't kicking on quite right, so the kids ate breakfast under blankets:

It might help if they would actually wear clothes around the house. ;)

we all have needs

I've been needing to write for so long. Not out of guilt--my mom is, like the only person who reads me here--but rather out of need. We all know that sometimes the needs facing us are louder than the needs seeking a way out. Those outside demands have quieted for now. So here I am.

The last part of August was spent in this frame of mind:

"Are we really going to move back to Boston? Of course we are! We LOVE it there!"

"Okay. How?"

The first part of September was spent like this:

"Are we really buying a house without seeing it? Without even driving by?"

"Of course we are. We can AFFORD it."

This was followed by a lot of praying and begging and pleading we weren't making a mistake.

The second part of September was spent saying goodbye to family, hoping our kids weren't going to cave in on themselves missing them, and rejoicing in a new life within.

Miracle of all miracles, we closed on the house on the 28th. We first saw it on the day we received the key of ownership. That very day we started ripping it apart. We have years of work ahead of us, which we knew going into it.

The first week here we were working as fast as we could knowing the symptoms of pregnancy would hit hard and fast. Week two the symptoms hit, and it seemed the focus of all five of our lives was to get me back in bed as early as possible every day.

Week 4 in our new home, my body knew what I would refuse to accept: this baby could not, would not, or should not make its way into our world. I will not hold my fourth child in my arms.

What has happened in my soul from then, until now, until eternity needs an eternity to happen. Because I cannot lose a child without the hope of seeing him alongside Jesus. I would die the most painful death without that hope, and I just cannot figure out how anyone survives without it. Living through the little that I have...I don't know how half the world can even remain breathing apart from Christ.*

At the same moment that universe of knowledge, possessing, touching and nursing and smelling-newborn stopped for me, the rest of our lives started back up again. What a bittersweet realization that....I had energy. I could eat. And I had to get to work. Partly to distract from loss...partly to be prepared should we be so audacious as to hope for a child again through pregnancy or adoption.

Then Li'l Bit got pneumonia....The Rascal (Ladybug) got Croup....Babydaddy got the flu. (Don't fight me, B. It was the flu. You were in bed for a week.) Providentially, I was able to pour my sorrow into compassion for three weeks. And, honestly, if I just won't let myself look into my own heart, I won't be so sad.

And now we are here. Our school room is organized, and we are actually having "school." My clothes are now in an adorable, antique dresser rather than the floor, and I look forward to getting dressed in the morning. I've scrubbed our bathroom enough that I actually feel clean when I take a shower. Our dear friends, the Baylors, have survived the rigors of Boston for so many months, and so I still get to be with them.

I have so many things I can check off of my do to's.....

.....but we get to this point.

We actually DO all we can....for once......but is it enough?

Crap. I don't know.

But I do know a few things. My life allows me to know a few things rather than just one. Though that one would more than suffice.

1. My Father loves me from eternity, forwards, and back again....despite who I am.

2. I still have a husband who could beat up your husbands any day of the week--on the same day as he gives me an hour long massage--and three kids who are kind of awesome.

3. There is a soul in heaven who was only "mine" for 8 weeks, and I can't wait to meet him or her.

4. We have plenty to keep us busy.

So that's where we are. We're loving our Father and trying to follow his Spirit. We're loving each other and trying to be nice about it. Grief doesn't really play out practically, so we're keeping busy. And there is plenty to work with.

*The depravity of man is astounding. We give ourselves enough reason to live through sheer selfishness. And that is what I fight everyday.

Bacon Heals All Wounds

All this talk about getting a house....

I'm feeling homey! That and my man is working from home this week AND NEXT WEEK, TOO!! So, I'm pretending that we have somewhat of a normal life. I've cooked and baked everyday this week. I don't do that on a good week in For Real normal life. Then there's the new, gazelle-intense frugality as we face the largest financial transaction of our entire lives!!! No more convenience foods. No more eating-out at all--and I mean all--of Arkansas' finest, smokiest, and greasiest eateries. I love me some Arkansas food! But if I want anymore of it from here on out, I'm going to have to get really good at convincing others to pay for it. ;) But I've never been good at that. I'll just sick Li'l Bit on 'em. She could convince a man he wants to become a woman given enough time. She's smooth.

I digress.

The fact that my mother-in-law bought a huge package of thick-cut bacon vastly improved this week's menu. (We've used almost the whole thing.) We've had Easy Bacon Chicken w/ whole wheat rolls, then the trusty Red Beans and Rice--ah, the taste of Debt Free!--w/ Irish Soda Bread for a change. Tonight dinner consisted of one thing, and one thing only: Bacon Twists. I LOVE this recipe! It was the first yeast bread recipe I made which empowered me to venture forth with others. *iloveyeast* Is that a sin?

Seriously, baking is my favorite me-thing in the whole world. (until I learn a musical instrument) But it had humble roots. When Gizmo was a babe I read The Total Money Makeover, by Dave Ramsey. I was All In from the first word, and we had tons of debt to pay off. I didn't make any money, but I could save our money on food for shiz. As I pared down our menu choices, I had to find a way to cheaply supplement for our high standard of flavor and sustenance. So I started baking. From scratch. I felt like I could serve any meager meal, as long as there was homemade bread on the side or a from-scratch dessert to follow--or in some cases, both. As long as I kept my pantry stocked with the basics, I could conjure up a good meal from nothing at all.

Without further ado, here it is. This is what we had for dinner tonight:

Bacon Twists

4 cups all-purpose flour

1 pkg. active dry yeast

1 tsp. each of sugar & salt

1 2/3 cups hand-hot water

1 egg

12 bacon strips

1 beaten egg

~Put all the water in your mixing bowl, sprinkle yeast over the top and stir just enough to wet it. Allow to sit for 10 minutes until you see the yeast activating (changing into a foamy substance.)

~Add sugar, salt, egg, and 2 cups of flour. (you can omit the egg if you need to. but why would you want to go and do a thing like that?) Mix well. Add the rest of the flour until you're kneading. Basically you want it to turn into a ball of dough that comes together, neither too sticky nor stiff. The happy in-between.

~Divide into 12 equal parts and roll each into a snake about 5 or 6 inches long.

~Wrap each snake with a piece of bacon and place on a greased baking sheet. Brush your bacon-strangled snakes with the beaten egg.

~Leave in a warm spot for 30 minutes, until fluffed up a bit.

~Bake in a 400 degree oven for 20-25 minutes, until cooked and browned. (decrease temp by 25 degrees for dark pans or typically over-hot ovens.)

~When done, these are great alone or served with a spinach or other herb-y dip.

Promises, promises...

A home inspection on a New England colonial built in 1832 can turn up some very interesting things. Take for instance, an abandoned--ahem, an OLD, abandoned toilet in the dirt-floor basement. Our inspector advised us to not use it. Don't have to tell us twice.

And then there's the main structural beam that needs some help. Not because of moisture or termites, but simply because of age. Or the dryer that vents directly into the laundry room and not the great outdoors. Or the 6 1/2 foot ceilings upstairs. Or the clogged sink drain. Or the electrical outlets not up to code. Or the bad caulk job in the bathroom.

But do you know what it does have?

For us?

Promise.

I'm not talking about flipping the house. As crazy as it sounds, we aren't solely sold on the real estate potential. We're sold on the promise of a home. We're sold on the promise that God can provide for all our needs.

When we started this crazy Arkansas experiment, one of our greatest hopes was that we might actually save enough bank to buy a house in the Boston area. That hope became an unspoken dream, which quickly became a pipe dream. I even became embarrassed that I had thought it possible.

Then this happened.

Not two weeks ago, B.daddy sent me a link to a house. He's done this a number of times, and every time I've said, "Yeah. Nice. But what do you want for dinner?" This time, I saw it. My immediate response: "This might be perfect." I realize perfect is a relative term, especially since I was sitting in a very luxurious, southern home at the time. This house could not be more dramatically juxtaposed to another house. But perfect it is.

When we left Boston in February, I started praying for our future home. I prayed for an extra bedroom...it has it. I prayed for an extra space for schooling...it has it. I prayed for a deck and a backyard...check. I prayed for a laundry room on the main living floor...yep. (Didn't think to pray about the venting. *wink*) My list of specific requests was daringly long, and God has provided every single thing in this old, quirky house. All of that and it's less than $300k! Needless to say, we love it!

This has been one refining process. Let me tell ya'. Apparently I have some trust issues. And, apparently, I'm kind of prone to freaking out when I can't control the outcome of things. It took 48 hours to get our offer signed, and I've never prayed so hard and continually in my life excepting childbirth. And I've never cried so hysterically in all my life as when I thought we were going to lose it.

So, our offer has indeed been signed, and obviously we've had our inspection done. In Mass you have to go through another step before closing. It's kind of a big deal. It's the Purchase and Sale Agreement, and we aren't supposed to fall in love with the house until that is signed. Too late for that.

But you know what? We're all in. Feet first. I'm trusting that this can happen.

My Love Language

Things are still going well for our little family in the big AR. We are staying very busy with people, activities, classes, museums, swimming, etc.

(Just one of our little activities.)

But mostly it's people we're after. Arkansas is jam-packed with people we love and who have loved us for a very long time. So we are spending as much time as we can visiting all of them. And so many we haven't even gotten to yet!

B.daddy's work schedule is supposed to let up a little bit in the coming months, so we are hopeful we will get to everyone before we have to leave.

(My view while visiting old friends.)

Recently on one lucky Sunday, we got to spend time with two of our favorite families. And what do I do when I'm with people I love? I feed them. Yes, food is definitely my primary love language. It is quite hard for me to think of anything more joyful than meeting this basic need in the pit of their bellies. Since we're all in the South, and embracing every aspect of it, I made Gumbo. I'm not a gumbo veteran by any means. But I cannot follow a recipe to save my life. Let me rephrase that. I can follow a recipe to a T; I just don't want to. I have a hard time sticking to the rules. I always think it needs a little more of this or that. And it seemed to need tomatoes. So I added those. :)

So, enjoy the recipe if you want to give it a try. And if not, invite us over and I'll make it for you!

Lotsa' Gumbo

2/3 cup vegetable oil

2/3 cup all-purpose flour

2 lbs. cooked and shredded chicken

1 lb. smoked sausage, sliced

1 lb. cooked, peeled shrimp

2 14 oz. cans chicken broth

3 cans diced tomatoes

1 large onion, chopped

1 large green pepper, chopped

4 stalks celery, chopped

1/4 cup vegetable oil

6 cloves garlic, minced

1 tsp. ground red pepper

1 tsp. ground white pepper

1 tsp. dried thyme

2 tsp. gumbo file

1 tsp. ground black pepper

1 bay leaf

salt to taste

1~Combine 2/3 cup oil and flour in small skillet; cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, 15 minutes or until roux is caramel colored. Remove from heat. Can chill for up to 24 hours.

2~In a Dutch oven, sautee chopped veggies in oil until tender. Add garlic and all seasonings; cook for about 5 more minutes.

3~Add roux, broth, tomatoes, sausage, and chicken to the Dutch oven. Stir well until blended.

4~Bring to a boil; reduce heat, and simmer 1 hour.

5~Add shrimp 5 minutes before time to serve and heat through.

6~Serve over hot rice with a bottle of Tabasco at the table. :)

Teach Me Some Melodious Sonnet

Today is the first full day away from Babydaddy after one full week of him working from home. And I just want to cry. Not a big, boo-hoo, wail fest. I think I just need a little something to push those brimming tears over the edge.

I know we're doing the right thing; I know we're on the right track. But I miss my Man.

However, I know I need to learn and practice a few things while he is not here--while I can't use him as a crutch. Yes, my husband is my shield. He protects me; he tends the garden of my soul. But I have some responsibility for that soil as well. This is soil that I have been all too eager to leave in anyone else's hands but my own. Even if those hands wounded me.

(He to rescue me from danger...)

This, literally, was the first thing that attracted me to my husband: I was freshly eighteen. I looked into those 26-year-old eyes-which seemed so old at the time-while I tried desperately to flirt with an unwilling partner. And I saw it.

I can trust him.

He will never lie to me.

He will never betray me.

He won't even flirt with me.

Even in my weakest moments, he will not use me.

And from that moment on, I never let him out of my sight.

Love at first sight. I didn't even know it, but I knew it.

Oh, how naive that sounds to a woman who has been betrayed! Oh, how I know. Though the pain was second-hand, I learned. I grew up loving a betrayed woman with every single ounce of my being. The type of love you can't muster up. The type of love you can't get rid of. I was everything I could be to comfort her, and she was everything she could be to comfort me. As much as I fight it, my planets still want to orbit around her...

But every time Ladybug sees the sun setting or rising she exclaims, "I found God! There's God! D'you see him?" And there is my ever present reminder. He is my Sun. I orbit around him. He gives me life. Every single, new day.

Not my mother who let her body be cut open a fourth time to let me live, and has loved me through a big bunch of crap. Not my husband who finally gave in to a silly, boy-crazy girl, and has loved me into so much more than myself.

My Father is the source of all life and light. I orbit around him. And within this orbit I will find...eventually...what it is I am supposed to learn. A tiny bit today, a whole lot more to come.

Outside of his orbit I would die. I pray, earnestly, he does not allow me to wander out there.

"Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,

Prone to leave the God I love;

Here's my heart, O take and seal it,

Seal it for Thy courts above."

Bored as a Gourd

I'm looking over a list of Arkansas events for this weekend, and here are some of my choices:

~Beginners Gourd Workshop

~Alice In Wonderland ballet

~Greek Food Festival

~Cruisin' in the Rock car show

~Loose Caboose Festival (what exactly do they mean by "loose caboose"?)

~Crawdad Days Music Festival

~Evening Kayak and Dinner Cruise

~The Impressionists and Their Influence Exhibit

~Kids Fishing Derby

~and the 20th Annual Atkins Picklefest

I want to go to the Picklefest! Sadly, it's at the bottom of the list. And I don't know where Atkins is.

Here's what I'm thinking as I look over this list: I could be miserable here. I could be bored and negative and lonely. (Well, scratch that. I'm surrounded by family members and old friends. I'd have to try really hard to be lonely. I might actually want to be lonely by October.) See, I can try to be miserable, or I can try to be happy. I have a choice. I always have a choice. Whatever my circumstance may be, I can choose to assign it whatever meaning I want.

Of course moving to Arkansas for eight months is not a true tragedy. (And a few Arkansans just got their feelings hurt because I likened the two.) But, enjoying and embracing Southern culture isn't quite the same as grieving the loss of a friend or a broken marriage. So, I guess my opinion is limited circumstantially. I'm not speaking to life-altering, heart-wrenching loss. I'm speaking to, Okay, This Is My Life, So What Am I Going To Do With It?

This is my life. And my life consists of so many people and events over which I have absolutely no control. But I have control of myself, my mind. I control myself. Nobody makes me feel or say or think or do anything. I can have a negative internal reaction, and still rein it in and make it captive to, in my case, the Love of Christ. I can say or do something selfish or hurtful, and still humble myself and apologize--like, for real apologize. What I'm realizing is that no person and no situation can make me do anything. I am free of that. And that freedom was at a Great Cost. I will not cheapen it.

So I choose to be happy. I choose to Love. Sometimes Love is hard and says, "No, not on my watch." Love also says, "Yes! Enjoy your childhood," or, "Enjoy the wife of your youth," or, "Pour your heart out. I will listen."

I am free to choose. In His Mercy, He forgives when I make the wrong choice...and still lets me choose.

So this weekend, we'll see the Impressionist and Their Influence in the world of art. We'll hopefully taste huge portions of Greek food and enjoy Greek dancing. Maybe we'll even get to climb a small mountain in west Little Rock and snag a Mommy-Daughter date to the ballet. Maybe, just maybe. But one thing is for sure: we are going to have a dang good time together as a family. Ain't nobody messin' with that! ;)

Silliness

This has been a long and busy month. My account of the busyness, though, would most assuredly be boring and mundane. Perhaps in a shining moment of recollection I will remember something both entertaining and enlightening. But it's not happening right now. So, I'm going to post this silly video of Li'l Bit. It is always interesting to open up the computer and see what she did for those quiet 2 hours during nap time.

The Thing About Boundaries

In a southern, Christian culture, there is much more division on the subject of drinking. Alcohol, that is. Politically it is much more frowned upon as there are "dry counties" all over the place--you can't even buy it. From a social perspective, I grew up thinking that if someone drank it meant they either weren't a Christian or had had a falling out with the Almighty. Of course, in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, they have no problem whatsoever with alcohol consumption, because the tax on it is so stinking high--and they're liberals and couldn't care less about your relationship with the Almighty. Socially and politically it is much more the norm, and hardly ever the faux pas. But here's the interesting thing: every single time I bought or ordered alcohol in Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont, Maryland, Maine I was carded. Every single time. Since I've been in Arkansas I've made plenty of trips to the liquor store and ordered a few glasses of wine at local restaurants. And do you know how many times I've been asked for I.D. here?

Once.

Once.

That instance was only because Walmart has a strict policy that minors cannot sell alcohol. So my adorable, pudgy cheeked cashier couldn't even touch the bottle. He had to call his manager over, and she, of course, asked for I.D. Because he was a minor, no doubt.

Here is the paradox: drinking is so faux pas, but in actuality, it might actually be far easier for minors to get it here.

~~~

This paradox has me thinking about something that I've been wondering about for a very long time. Boundaries. Yes, that blessed buzz word, that means who-knows-what to each individual who hears it. Let me take the liberty of attempting to lay down a general definition.

In my opinion "boundaries" is when you are able to decipher between what is your responsibility and what is not. A simple question I often ask myself is, "Is this my problem? Or is it theirs?"

Ah, now there's the problem.

Back to that paradoxical Christian culture...there's a common speed bump Christians* encounter when trying to lay down their own healthy boundaries. If boundaries are not selfish then they are lacking in forgiveness. There it is. To claim the freedom to say, "No, not in my life", one is either being selfish or has not forgiven an offender. I feel that boundaries are socially frowned upon, but there is so much more danger and bondage as a result. Everyone wants to do what they want to do, but nobody wants to say no. Enter in Manipulation and Anger. Bondage.

I've found that boundaries are one of two things: a frowned upon buzz word, powerless, tiresome; or, more commonly, a conversation killer. Try to talk about the true issues surrounding boundaries, and you'll get blank stares. That's the thing about boundaries. They are hard. Being able to live ones life honestly seeking, What is my responsibility and what is not, is really, really hard. So much honesty is required to actually get to that answer, that one has no excuse whatsoever to not follow through on what they've discovered is their responsibility. It's hard. Finding the truth and acting on that truth can seem insurmountable. But the truth shall set you free. Truly!

And saying no is hard. Nobody wants to be the bad guy. (Unless you're one of the few natural-born Devil's Advocates.) We all want to be accepted--even a Devil's Advocate. So, it actually challenges our selfish nature to point out something unacceptable and say, No, not on my watch! We Christians discourage boundaries and call them selfish, but they actually protect the ones who need protecting. Love is willing to be the bad guy.

*I know this isn't exclusive to Christianity. It just seems to be the most commonly played card within.

Sweeping the Cobwebs Away

I was sweeping my mother-in-law's kitchen floor when it hit me.

"I am finding joy in this."

My heart has been searching for joy--or at least meaning--in housework for eight years. Why now?

I've read so many books on the How-To's of house keeping, and even a couple of really amazing ones on the Why. I've tried and tried and tried to embrace this. So, why all of the sudden does it seem to make sense? Why am I enjoying it?

I think it's because I'm grateful.

My mother-in-law and her husband are allowing our family to completely take over their dwelling for eight months. Free of charge. And I find joy in baking for them and doing things around the house, because it's the best way I know to say, "Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you!"

It's the same situation at my mom's house. I shouldn't enjoy spending time cleaning and cooking there. Our weekends are nearly our only times to be with B.daddy. But still, I am humbled with gratitude. Every other weekend we get their house completely to ourselves. And every other weekend they give up their privacy to give us a place to be a family. So, straightening up their house and baking cookies for their work week? Not only is it not a big deal, but it actually brings me joy to do it.

Now, if you were me reading this, about two paragraphs ago you would have started asking, "Are you not grateful in your daily life? Are you not grateful to your husband and children for existing? Let alone the fact that they are awesome, and your husband is a good man and treats you with love and respect." Well, yes, that is exactly what it was that hit me.

Why have I not found joy in preparing our previous home for my husband's return from work everyday? Why has it always been riddled with guilt and resentment? He has never--NEVER--told me how to keep the house and how things should look when he gets home everyday. He has always showered me with grace and empathy. So, why? Why has it always been such a hardship for me?

Well, I have two theories.

One is, it's my own entitlement that tells me he should be helping me with all of this. And then there are my assumptions and insecurities that tell me he expects me to do it all perfectly...all by myself. (And have make up on and my hair did at the end of the day.)

The second theoretical source is our culture. I think we all know that popular, American culture has been trying, for decades, to revamp female roles in society as well as the home. I'm not against it. I'm just saying, many of these messages that I've been hearing all of my life are making it dang hard to serve my husband and children the way the Spirit within me longs to serve--namely, joyfully.

I'm sure that in the end, they both meld together perfectly to antagonize my desire to be a good wife and mother. I'm sure they work perfectly together to deflect my attention from how amazingly God loves me, that He would give me the privilege to be these things. And I'm sure, it could be any number of things causing me to not see what is right in front of me and all around me: a Father who loves me and showers me with gifts appropriate for my upbringing and edification. In the end, isn't that the most important thing? That God really does love me, and I really can count on that every single day? Even on days that suck? Or, better yet, on really good days when I don't "do" anything outside of hanging out with my kids and folding a load of laundry?

Baking, I am.

My most halting concern about spending 8 months in Arkansas-living with and mooching off of our families: I wouldn't be in my kitchen. For it is in one's own kitchen that one can move fluidly from the pantry to the utensil drawer to the pink Kitchen Aid mixer. And it is in anyone else's kitchen that one finds oneself completely lost and flustered as to where the darn fill-in-the-blank is!

But, I am very happy to report that I only have two, new kitchens to learn. And these two kitchens have welcomed me with open arms. I spend most of my days in the kitchen of my gracious, hospitable mother-in-law, who has allowed me to turn it upside-down on several baking occasions. And I have been spending weekends at my mom's where I simply cannot not bake for her and my sisters.

So, thankfully, I have already had many opportunities to bake for the people I love. One of these opportunities was making pancakes for Grammie and Poppy, and tomorrow morning my eldest sister will be graced by their consumption as well. Seriously, y'all, they are g-o-o-d. See, I LOVE pancakes, and I spent years trying to find the perfect recipe which would yield the yummiest pancakes ever. I finally found it, made minor tweaks, and here it is!

Yummy, Fluffy Pancakes

2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour*

2 Tbsp. granulated sugar

1 Tbsp. + 1 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. salt

2 eggs, slightly beaten

1-3/4 cups milk**

1/2 cup butter-flavored shortening, melted***

1) Melt the shortening in a small container in the microwave. Preheat griddle to 350-400 degrees--that depends on whether your griddle is on the hot side or cool.

2) Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a medium-large bowl. Then combine the eggs and milk in a separate bowl.

3) Pour the milk and eggs into the dry ingredients and stir just a bit. Then pour in the shortening and stir till most of the lumps are out. (If you put the shortening directly into cold milk and eggs it will stiffen back up.)

4) Fry 'em up, baby!

5) I always keep my pancakes warm in a 150-200 degree oven. Nothing's worse than cold pancakes! I use a dish that I can uncover and recover easily--also don't want them getting dry.

*If you absolutely HAVE to use whole wheat flour, go ahead. But they just aren't the same. Make them first with all-purpose flour, and you'll know what I'm talking about. I have a completely different recipe when I want to use whole wheat. There is a time and place for everything. And I think there is even a place in HEAVEN for these pancakes!

**Once you have everything stirred together, you might need to add a splash of milk. You don't want your batter too thin, but also not too think. There's a perfect in-between somewhere in there. (And I have been known to use half-n-half when in a pinch. ;) Even better!

***If you don't have butter-flavored shortening, use the white stuff--but add 1-2 tsp. of butter flavored extract. It makes the pancakes sing!

Gussied Up

I have three older sisters, all alike in beauty and in grace, and I got to have a lunch date with one of them this last weekend. She took me to Ya-Ya's which is one of her FAVORITE!! places--always expressed with such emphasis. I just had to try it, and it was wonderfully delicious. Which, $2 mimosas make pretty much anything delicious. Even to a snob like me. ;)

What struck me when we walked in was the smell. These blessed olfactory receptors received nothing but bacon, sweet belgian waffles, and perfume. Yep. It was Sunday mornin'--not that that really makes a difference--and everyone was Gussied Up! Even the heathens who didn't go to church were dressed to the 9's. For the last four--has it already been four?--weeks I have been struck, and honestly, intimidated by how Pretty everyone is. I know I should be used to it since I grew up here. But more than anything, I'm just thinking, "Of course I was always self-concious! Every single girl I see is ready to take the stage." And again, that liberal, New England voice says, "Damned if I do! I'm going to change this culture!" But, you know, I've got my own stuff to deal with. And the whole of Arkansas to honk at.

So, it has been a bit of an adjustment. But I will say that today I managed to not wear make-up. All day long. See...I've tried. A number of times, I've restrained myself from putting on that pleasing face in the a.m., but by the time I actually need to get out I think to myself, "Oh, but what if someone thinks I'm sick?" Because, like, seriously, no one leaves the house without make up on. So I usually opt on the side of make up. With the amount of personal information that passes between strangers, I'm really worried that someone will walk up to me and ask how my chemo is going.

Truly, that's absolutely nothing to bother about when I consider the incredible break I am getting. Take for instance, tonight. Li'l bit has a belly ache. Her bowels have been loose for several days (and I know all 4 of my readers are moms so I can say that), and I've been worried about the toll this move is taking on her. Normally, diarrhea would have to be remedied by t.v. and water, while Babydaddy and I wrassled the other two through dinner and bed. But tonight, I was actually able to sit on the couch and read to her for hours while the other two were upstairs being fed by their Grammie. And I don't even have to wash the dinner dishes.

So I guess I can put on my big girl pants and wear a little bit of make up.

Honk if you love Jesus (Or if you just want someone to drive correctly!)

I promised myself and several dear friends that I would not get down here and just complain, complain, complain. And I'm doing very well. I'm enjoying the south, the people, the pace. What I thought might be annoying, has been charming and/or hilarious. BUT, let me tell you...

I love honking. It is so very efficient.

Someone pulls in front of you and endangers the lives of your precious passengers? Honk, and she knows she did something wrong. You want to let someone pull out but they're hesitant? Honk, flash your lights, and he knows you're letting him go. The person in front of you doesn't see the green light? Honk, and he moves along.

But not so much here. I saw it with my own eyes: A guy on a motorcycle didn't see the light turn green. He got a polite, little honk from behind, but instead of going, he turned around and glared at the other driver! Can you believe the inefficiency of that action? We're on the road people. And the point of driving is to safely get from point A to point B. This is not an emotional transaction.

You see, "up in Boston" (read with a snobbish, aloof tone) there are a million-gazillion cars on the road all the time. And the roads are horrendous with hundreds of terrible intersections. So, things have to move quickly and efficiently. Which means, you have to be always alert and very conscientious--or you will kill someone. You must watch out for bikes and pedestrians, and cars that need to turn left across high traffic areas (which means, you sometimes stop to let them go! Novel idea.) And when merging must take place--It's a zipper people, a ZIPPER! You go, I go, You go, I go. And if you don't allow proper zippering, you can expect to get honked at. And if you're in the left lane on the interstate, you know to move over when someone wants to pass. Everyone understands this rule; we give each other a chance to move it along.

But driving is not the same in this slow-paced, spread-out south. Drivers don't have to be more efficient and so, in my humble opinion, they are not. Watch out in parking lots--you'll get run over, since pedestrians apparently do not have the right of way. If you start to turn left across traffic, the oncoming cars speed up! And my dear friend--recently moved back from Boston as well--was riding his bike to work and someone actually rolled down his window and yelled, "Get off the road!" And if you're in the left lane, you don't even get a chance to pull over before the car behind you nearly rear ends you in their passive aggressive attempt to get you to move. Just honk, for crying out loud. I'll skit skat skoodle doot, before you can say "flip flop flee."

I call this Over-Emotionalized Driving. Everyone is so dadgum polite. Complete strangers wave and say "Howdy, how are you, young lady? Oh, what pretty babies you have. You know, my granddaughter..." But this sort of politeness does not translate well to the road. It becomes one of two things: 1) Slow, slow, slow going. But no hurt feelings. or 2) Aggressive, passive-aggresive drivers. But "no hurt feelings." The charming, polite culture makes everyone afraid to say yes, no, or just go, for fear of hurting someones precious feelings. How about we all just recognize that we're simply trying to get to the store, or home, or wherever. So, let's get down to business. If I'm in your way, let me know. And if I'm doing something wrong that slows you up, honk. I'll kick it into gear. And I'll do the same for you.

So, I vow: I will single-handedly change the driving culture of central and south Arkansas in a mere eight months. If I do not succeed I promise to take my "mean" driving habits back to Boston. ;)

And Boston drivers are NOT crazy! ;)

Mrs. Chris

After crossing over the Mason Dixon Line last Monday, we got to spend an evening with Mrs. Chris and her husband, Lou. Lou was actually born in Medford--and lived a few blocks from our old house on Winthrop Street when we was a little boy. She and Lou met a few years ago and fell in love. Two sweet souls, gifts to one another.

Chris was my mom's BFF while we were just hoodlums, and also our choir director and associate youth pastor. We were very fortunate. While other kids spent their spring breaks and summer vacations on the beach, ski slopes, or in front of the tube, Chris took us to homeless shelters, mental hospitals, and disciplinary institutions. She wasn't trying to scare us out of bad behavior. She made all of those plans based on love and compassion--a bleeding heart if you may. Rather Christ-like, eh? We sorted clothes closets, served meals, and painted walls; we scrubbed, scoured, and cleaned places not worth mentioning or recalling; we held toddlers who smelled like urine and hugged the women they belonged to. And all while singing a vast repertoire of contemporary Christian hits. We were exhausted at the end of every single day. And we loved it.

I grew up in a safe, southern town full to the brim of middle-class Southern Baptists who just happened to be--you guessed it--white. I loved my little town~and an important part of me still does~but I was also completely unaware of my cultural limitations. I was not a born Questioner. (My husband is.) I still don't like to challenge things, ideas, or people, (my husband does.) But, Chris was probably the first person who taught me from a standpoint of love, that there was work to be done and a vast world within to do it. I couldn't assume I would marry within my Cabot circle, have little Cabot babies, go to church every Sunday morning, and call it a life. I'm not saying, by any means, that staying in your hometown is regrettable. I'm simply saying, for me it was not the right path. And I needed to be convinced that it wasn't.

We stayed mostly in the southern states on our trips, but she exposed us to so many different types of people. So many different ways of life. So much hurt, desperation, and loss. And yet, Joy in every single situation if you knew what you were looking for. Among so many other things, I learned that 1) there are people in very difficult situations who need to be loved. And 2) it is possible to love people in very difficult situations.

Most of all, I loved our experiences because I touched a world so far removed from my own. I came back feeling like I could never go back to the way things were before. Of course I always felt I did in the end go back--fail. But now that I'm old enough to look back on that young girl, I know. I didn't fail. I was just learning.

And then I witnessed Chris experience earth shattering loss like no one I've ever known. No one. But she was honest about it, and she let me watch. I was just a teenager and she respected me. She didn't lean on me as a friend, but she treated me as an equal. I'm sure she protected me from the parts of grief I simply could not have handled, yet she was so open. Then years later her world has been racked again. And again. And again.

When I was 12 and entering the youth group, her son smuggled a handful of cookies to me at the welcoming party. At 15 she toted us all over the crazy South. When I was 17 and my parents were divorcing, I spent almost everyday with her while she grieved that soft-hearted son. Today I see her once a year. And today, as she grieves the two parents she has spent the last several years caring for, I still learn from her. To know her is to see what it's like for a heart to be beaten, bruised, betrayed, and torn to shreds, and still love. Still forgive. Still cry out to her Father for help. A heart oozing love still, because there is hardly any blood left to bleed.

Rather Christ-like.

Well, We Made It

My darling children and my blessed mother made it through three days of driving rather well. I was actually surprised at how easily and smoothly it all went. Yesterday afternoon we drove over the Mississippi River and showed Li'l Bit the "Welcome to Arkansas" sign. Her eyes got as big as saucers and her smile was even bigger. The girl was born in one of the coolest cities in the WORLD and she is come-unglued-ecstatic to be in Arkansas. Of all places.

Her enthusiasm is good for me. It reminds me that they don't care what is cool or hip. They only care about being where they are happy. And they've been happy in Boston and Arkansas. And we're in Boston all the time, so naturally, they want to spend more time in the Natural State. So here we are. The Land of Opportunity.

Opportunity.

We were chatting with Chris and Sweet Lou--more on them later--and they asked, "So, what are you going to do in Arkansas?" After the negativity ran it's lightening speed course through my brain waves, I said, "I'm going to be optimistic." We are in the south. We are going to devour everything South that we can. We are going to experience this region. And not just fried food. We're going to enjoy the best parts of this drastically different culture; we're going to learn about the history; we're going to take advantage of every bit of art and culture available--especially the free and inexpensive. And we're going to read. I think we're going to have lots of time to read.

Mostly, there is an obvious advantage that this part of the country has for us. Roots. History. People. I have a LIST of people we are dying to see. I'm not talking about sitting in a stuffy living room with a dozen distant relatives we hardly know. I'm talking about real love. Real, intimate friendships that have shaped our spiritual lives. And we're not just here for five days! We can actually sit down and relax and enjoy all the people we've loved along the way.

So, we're here. The journey begins, and I am excited. My heart is breaking everyday, because I wish I could meld my two worlds together into one. But, still, I'm excited.

I Killed My Hair.

From the time I was, oh...14 I think, until I was 18, I dyed my hair. At first it was a slight lightening until, finally, you should see my senior photo! If it weren't packed away in a storage unit I would show it to you. It doesn't require much imagination though. Just picture a short, short pixie in bleach-white blond. Oddly enough, in another senior picture it was red. That was my favorite.

But, when I turned 18, went to college, and met the love of my life, I began a journey of enjoying and appreciating the way God made me. This meant I stopped altering my appearance, so no more hair dye. (I did, however, grow up in the South, so I did NOT stop wearing make up. I have my limits.)

For some reason, I felt the best way to celebrate ten years of God given, genuine brown would be dying it blond! Genius. I did actually give it some thought. I thought, It's not that big of a deal to me anymore. I don't care so much whether my hair is blond or brown or red--but I don't think I could pull off black. And I have actually stopped wearing make up everyday. I've transcended, right? So I figured, what the heck. I went to Target, picked out the darkest blond they had, and applied.

It was a shock. When I came out of the bathroom Gizmo stopped dead in his tracks and just looked at me. He didn't say anything; he just looked at me funny for a day or so. I don't mind it so much now, but the problem is not the look. It's the feel. Before this carefree experiment my hair was healthy, smooth, bouncy, shiny, obedient. I had that hair. Now I think my hair is actually offended. It is dead as a doornail. (Yes, I know hair is never literally alive. Moving on...) No more shine, no more bounce, and it's coarse and DISobedient. I was apparently so unappreciative that it is giving me...the shaft. (sorry, couldn't help it.) It's as if it is saying, "I gave you my best for ten years and it wasn't good enough for you? Well I'll be damned if I'm going to pretend to be a natural blond. You're on your own, chic!"

So here I am. I had made peace with having plain ol' brown hair. And now I get to make peace with having dry, damaged hair. If it's not one thing it's another.

The Clock is Ticking

With the help of a few, very brawny men, we moved all of our furniture into storage on Saturday morning. On Saturday afternoon I started to feel like we had all the time in the world to be finally prepared for this...shift. It's still hard to call it a move. I never thought I'd be moving back to Arkansas. And I'm not. Not for good anyway. It is just so hard to let go of a city, a region, a people-culture, and people I've always loved so much. Because letting go for eight months is still letting go even if we'll be back in October. Anyway, back up to the surface--Saturday, I felt like we had plenty of time.

Today is Monday. Monday night to be exact.

Tonight it feels like we have only two weeks. And counting.

Why is it that two days can cause such a drastic change in perspective? Well, we aren't talking about years here. Weeks. And only two. Also granted, it dawned on me today that B.daddy will be traveling soon, making this one full week as an all-together-in-the-same-room-family before this...shift. So, yeah, I'm still very grateful to be in a place where I know for (98%) sure what our next immediate steps are. And I am excited about the changes, the possibilities, the opportunities. But I'm also in this empty--but astonishingly messy--apartment. I'm in limbo between the last eight months and the next eight months, with clothes to pack, meals to prepare, children to love, friends to be with.

The kids are doing very well, in spite of their little worlds being turned upside down.

So, we're good. Just getting ready.

Full Hands

Driving a Duck Tour on the Charles:

Ladybug.

We've got our hands full with this one.

Babydaddy has this funny, little M&M dispenser. You put the candy in the top, push down Peanut M&M's leg, and M&M's come rolling out into a bucket. Strangely enough, it is one of his most priced possessions. I guess there's still a bachelor inside every happily married man.

Even though it was empty, Ladybug was playing with it the other day, and B.daddy reached down to show her how it worked. She snatched it back and said, "No, it's my toy."

Oh, honey. You just picked a fight you can't win. Or so we thought. It went a little bit like this:

"Ladybug, this is Daddy's toy. Say, 'Can I play with your toy, Daddy?'"

"It's my toy."

"No, it's mine. I'm not giving it to you until you say, 'Can I play with your toy.'"

"Can I play with my toy?"

"No, say, 'It's yours,' and I'll give it back."

"It's mine."

"No, say, 'It's yours.'"

"It's mine."

"Say, 'Can I play with your toy.'"

"Can I play with my toy?"

Okay, maybe--just maybe she has her pronouns mixed up. She is only two, after all. So Daddy tries to level with her.

"Ladybug, if you want to play with this toy, you have to say, 'It's Daddy's toy.'"

"I can't, Daddy."

....

Well, pronouns are obviously not the problem.

....

So, the above went on for literally five minutes. And Ladybug did. not. budge. She didn't crack a guilty smile, no frustrated anger. Just dead pan What-I-Say-Goes. That girl has an iron will. But you'd never know it, because she's so charming. I told you; we've got our hands full with her.

Finally, Daddy had a bright idea. Real candy! Candy is the answer to all behavioral issues.

Pee in the potty? Candy.

Do your lessons? Candy.

Get in the van? Candy.

Shut your trap? Candy.

So, Daddy filled the toy with candy, and pressed the leg down. Magic! Ladybug immediately reached out for it, but Daddy was ready.

"No, babe. If you want this you have to say it's my toy."

"It's my toy."

"Ladybug. I will give you this piece of candy if you say, 'It's Daddy's toy.'"

Pause.

"It's Daddy's toy."

Victory!!

Can we count that one as a victory?

It Can't Possibly Be That Easy

Relocating is not easy. I knew when we started this whole ordeal it would take a lot of presence of mind and perseverance.

Sure enough.

No need to bore you with the details, but we got new information today that forced us to change some of our logistical plans. The bare bones of what we're doing for the next 8 months are the same. But we've had to rearrange our moving and driving schedule a tad. Not a big deal, right? Well, then you've never planned anything with me. Actually, that's very probable, because I'm such an obsessive planner that I hate to share planning responsibilities. Except with other obsessive planners. Anyway, we got this info today and it's really not that big of a deal. But to me? It is. Thankfully, my husband is amazingly sensitive to my...sensitivity, and we formulated a new plan that I can be at peace with.

Already, we're learning. I thought that maybe after the second or third month, we'd encounter difficulties that would require us to employ all our very best attributes. Actually, six weeks prior you encounter circumstances that require the exact same things! Go figure. So, it's good. It may not be the easiest 8+ months of our lives. But it's good.

What is stupidly easy, though? This recipe! My Nana got me this particular cookbook when I got married, so I've had it for 7 1/2 years. I only recently found this recipe within. And it is to. die. for. You have to try it!

Toffee Bars

2 cups firmly packed brown sugar

2 cups butter, softened (yeah. that's 4 sticks.)

2 egg yolks

1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

4 cups all-purpose or whole wheat flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

12 oz. bag of chocolate chips

1) Cream butter and sugar together. Add egg yolks & vanilla. Add flour & salt. Press into greased 9x13 inch pan.

2) Bake @ 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes, until lightly browned. The texture will be soft.

3) Remove from oven to cooling rack. Sprinkle chocolate chips evenly over the top until softened, then spread evenly. While still warm cut into desired size bars. These puppies are delectable, so you can make them small and make them go a loooong way!

Crazy People, We Are

Earlier this week we sent out an email to most of our friends and family. (I say most, because my husband sent it out, and I never can know if he got every single person I would choose.) :) Out of sheer laziness I'm copying the email here. (I did author it after all. ;) I'd love to go into all the details and plans, but that would be boring for all of you honkey tonks not involved or vested. And I'd also love to go deep into how I'm feeling about this decision right now, but that would be a little too personal via blogspot. Especially since I reserve that right for my husband, and my husband alone. So, let's just leave it at: I'm excited and I'm sad. But I'm not worried.

Dearest Friends~

We have some very exciting news to share with you.

B has been offered a great opportunity at work. For nine months he will be a part of a nationwide training program implementing major process changes for his department. Eight of these months will involve a good bit of travel, so we have come up with a hair~brained idea. During these eight months S and the kids will "visit" our family in Arkansas, and when B is not traveling he will be with the family in Arkansas. B's mom's house will be our temporary home until this project is over. He will then return to his current position, and we will return to New England together.

We will end our lease at the end of February, moving all our worldly goods into a storage unit nearby. We will pack our clothes, a few toys, and our school books and drive the van down to AR. And when all is said and done, we will return to New England moving all our possessions from storage into a more hospitable home for which we will be praying fervently!

We have considered all the risks and sacrifices of such a Life Shift. We have also sought wise counsel and prayed a lot. Though our hearts are heavy when we think of what--and who--we will be missing, we feel confident that this is the transition we have been prepared for.

Despite some of the bleaker realities, we also see this as a great opportunity in many ways:

~This will be good for B's career. What an amazing story of how God has used B's career at Liberty Mutual to provide for our family-both getting us to Boston and keeping us here. This seems to be the next chapter in that story.

~During B's travel S will have plenty of help and company. Plenty. ;)

~We will have eight months to save every penny that would normally go toward rent and utility bills. We still dream of owning a home in this crazy-expensive place!

~What a rare opportunity for our extended family to be near our kids! We may never live close to our extended family, so we see this as such a gift for all parties involved.

We would certainly appreciate your prayers. We realize this is a major undertaking and are praying that our family unit will come out at the end stronger, wiser, and more faithful to our Father and each other. We have been focusing our time and attention on becoming a family of worship, and we intend to maintain that focus.

Thank you for your support and affection~

B&S