tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21542433601582065912024-02-23T01:46:15.312-05:00Feeding Angelsa collection of recipes and encouragementRachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-90537063593015617802017-05-25T16:33:00.000-04:002017-05-25T16:52:28.422-04:00More Struggle, More Tears, More Joy<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkkAnYGsQuiZHHP5TGNGiGIC2V2lvPkNMChnqMcEcKJjpjtSeT4yeGCXbZTSYJyfs6GGDUUrEZbqporltMhj9SRKDSxh1_dDcZANeh0NMTW2ZAX4ykG7ci0D5_hwGHyi-OK24mDms4mA/s1600/IMG_2263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkkAnYGsQuiZHHP5TGNGiGIC2V2lvPkNMChnqMcEcKJjpjtSeT4yeGCXbZTSYJyfs6GGDUUrEZbqporltMhj9SRKDSxh1_dDcZANeh0NMTW2ZAX4ykG7ci0D5_hwGHyi-OK24mDms4mA/s320/IMG_2263.JPG" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last day of Fifth Grade</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Pulling away from the school after dropping Jackson off this morning, I cried. My older son (who I drop off second) asked why I was crying, then why I didn't cry like that when he finished 5th grade. Little stinker. First off, I did cry when I dropped him off, too. I cried like a baby, only there wasn't anyone left in the car to hear me and ask me about why I was crying. I will admit, though, it wasn't the same, and I don't think it will be the same when my younger child finishes 5th grade either. Why? The struggle.<br />
<br />
Jackson started off his life in better shape than his brother and sister. My oldest was born with a low birth weight 6 weeks early. He struggled to catch up with his peers, but once he did, he took the lead and kept it. My daughter barely made it to full term, and had a rocky first few days, but she also caught up fast and hasn't slowed down since. Jackson was a big healthy baby born full term and sent home from the hospital within the first 24 hours. Physically, he thrived the first few weeks of his life, but that's where the differences flip. While his brother and sister caught up and passed their peers in almost every way, Jackson started falling behind. The struggle began.<br />
<br />
The differences and delays started adding up. He wasn't reaching milestones. He wasn't talking. He wasn't walking. He hated being touched and held. You can read about the signs we saw and how we decided to seek and eventually received an autism diagnosis in another blog post of mine, but it was all different with him.<br />
<br />
His food allergies and his autism often made school days a struggle. Allergic to corn, soy, milk and eggs, he could only eat my food, made from scratch. Most of his life, if I or a trusted family member or friend didn't make it, he didn't eat it. He had food texture and temperature issues on top of the allergies, so there were limits. I spent many late nights up cooking making sure he had safe healthy food he would enjoy eating.<br />
<br />
He struggled socially, and his social issues got him in trouble often. He had trouble with focus and attention, personal space and boundaries. He didn't make those intuitive leaps the same way his peers did. Each situation was its own entity and did not carry over into other situations with other people.<br />
<br />
He had multiple weekly therapies both in school and private. He had communication issues, processing issues, social issues. His teachers' and therapists' suggestions and observations shaped much of what we did at home. I think I came to rely on them as much as he did, and when he graduated out, I felt lost, like I had lost my own therapy in the process.<br />
<div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-atl3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/461431_10150850300713878_1963773082_o.jpg?oh=1b280b9ec3e007bcf5e010031aa14f5c&oe=59AF513E" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="No automatic alt text available." aria-busy="false" border="0" class="spotlight" height="320" src="https://scontent-atl3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/461431_10150850300713878_1963773082_o.jpg?oh=1b280b9ec3e007bcf5e010031aa14f5c&oe=59AF513E" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kindergarten Graduation, 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
For Moms with kids like this, there is no choice between fight or flight because flight isn't an option. So, you fight and you fight and you fight. Your whole identity gets wrapped up in this battle. It consumes you.<br />
<br />
I fought hard to make his world safe. I fought to learn to cook things he could eat and enjoy. I fought for his education, to get him in the schools that were best for him. I fought for insurance coverage and Medicaid acceptance so he could get the therapies he needed. I fought to teach him how to learn, how to calm the storm of sensory information and filter out what he needed. I fought to teach him how to be a friend. I fought for the right medication, the right doctors.<br />
<br />
I have fought battles for each of my children, but my other two didn't need me in the same way Jackson did. Jackson needed me, not so much to fight FOR him but WITH him, along side him. It's so easy to get caught up in the mom fight with Medicaid and doctors and teachers and therapists and administrators making sure he gets everything he needs, I forget that he's fighting just to be himself in this crazy world that isn't usually kind to those who are different.<br />
<br />
Every step he has taken in this life, I feel like I took with him. The first step into school, we took together, and today we took the last step out of elementary school together. I hugged him outside and lost it. All the hard days. All the late nights. All the worry filled days. All the tear filled days. All the days filled with frustration. All the days I was sure I had failed him. All worth it! The memories and the lessons and the relationships we have made together on this journey are worth the struggle. Watching him work so hard, fight so well, overcome so many obstacles and become who he was meant to be, it was all worth the fight.<br />
<br />
His struggle continues. It isn't really all that different than the struggle my other two face. Growing up isn't easy for any child, even though as a mother, I feel like it should be the easiest thing a child does. Jackson will face the same world his brother and sister face, but his differences will most likely stand out a little more than theirs. That makes him a bigger target for the ugly in this world to find.<br />
<br />
This is where my struggle changes. I will no longer be fighting by his side in a measurable tangible way, at least not as much. My fight will be spent mostly on my knees asking the God who made him to sustain him through the next stage in his life. My fight will be fought behind the scenes encouraging him to trust the God who does not make mistakes. I'll be making sure he knows I want so much more than "normal" for him, and that his differences are what make him one of the (three) coolest kids on the planet.<br />
<br />
My tears today didn't just come from a milestone reached. They came from a hard fought battle won. He made it! We made it! And, I could not be more proud of this child.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To God be the glory, without his choosing to give Jackson to me, I would not have known the depth of his blessing, his sustenance, and his joy, nor the size of the fight in this mother's heart.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Onward to middle school! But, first, Summer.</div>
</div>
</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-74377309996350403882016-11-21T15:54:00.000-05:002016-11-21T15:54:28.683-05:00To Keurig or not to Keurig<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLbUiRQ91bqI2Vqfgl9o8_A2YmLFINVji6Z0GxXkTv5QgKYM5JQr_RMF9iQFdZVGH5HlTSI2L2wxg3o3WodXYhrYMK-AvhjGDSPYJHQQPB1ZJoIf_K1GLPOhGY29jgOYSZDRv41htRqN8/s1600/IMG_1610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLbUiRQ91bqI2Vqfgl9o8_A2YmLFINVji6Z0GxXkTv5QgKYM5JQr_RMF9iQFdZVGH5HlTSI2L2wxg3o3WodXYhrYMK-AvhjGDSPYJHQQPB1ZJoIf_K1GLPOhGY29jgOYSZDRv41htRqN8/s320/IMG_1610.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The monstrosity on my counter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I realize this statement will likely make me a few enemies, but I'll say it anyway.<br /><br />I hate the Keurig.<br /><br />I don't know how long we've owned one, but I haven't used it one time. I see it on my counter and wish it wasn't there. I don't drink coffee. My husband doesn't really drink coffee either. So, why do we have one? Exactly.<br /><br />I hate cleaning it. Anything I can't take apart and clean myself or run through the dishwasher, I don't feel is really clean. Cleaning solution run through? I bet that works like the jet cleaner I use on my jetted tub. I'm not drinking out of that for sure.<br /><br />I hate the space it takes up on my counter. I hate cleaning around it. But, more than all that, I hate all the waste. I go through the trouble of separating recyclables out of my trash to recycle them for a reason. Bottles, cans, cardboard, paper, I want to reuse or recycle all I can. Filling my trash with those tiny cups makes me sad. They could at least make them out of recyclable material.<br /><br />We pretty much just use it for hot chocolate and the occasional moment my husband needs a cup of coffee. I drink tea, all kinds of tea. I have an old fashioned kettle and a loose leaf steeper. I've been wanting one of those stove top milk steamers (which we could have bought three of for the price of that stupid Keurig) to do more authentic tea lattes, but can't justify it since I'm fine with regular tea most days.<br /><br />The ingredients!?! I don't know about the coffee or what brands may be available, but the hot chocolate my husband prefers? Disgusting. Corn syrup solids, mono and diglycerides (trans fat), artificial flavor. When I make hot chocolate at home, I use real milk, sugar and Cocoa Powder. Drinking reconstituted chocolate flavored powder doesn't sound appetizing.<br /><br />Clearly, I'm not a fan. Until....<br /><br />I saw this on the tea isle.<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGjPSpSmG4QildfUX_NdYKDW6J9gnUUQ0ODJ_RXMq8feAmCnaSkwrZu4ponJTy2zfv_S9AlPQVs9qjWzZhWfxgMUjkyLPLhIWgTdVuAWlWyg6JZtocKxtITdxj2aHaLZEvRcLzsScHjPA/s1600/IMG_1619.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGjPSpSmG4QildfUX_NdYKDW6J9gnUUQ0ODJ_RXMq8feAmCnaSkwrZu4ponJTy2zfv_S9AlPQVs9qjWzZhWfxgMUjkyLPLhIWgTdVuAWlWyg6JZtocKxtITdxj2aHaLZEvRcLzsScHjPA/s320/IMG_1619.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /><br />I checked the ingredient label and wondered. Might it taste the same? I decided to put aside my hatred and try it.<br /><br />I bought a box and felt guilty for the waste before I even opened it up, but told myself it would only be for those crazy mornings when there's no time for brewing tea.<br /><br />The test.<br /><br />I really wanted to like it. Chai tea lattes are one of my favorite things. I just couldn't. The ingredients are better than the hot chocolate, but it's still reconstituted dairy and sugar. It tastes like reconstituted dairy and sugar... with spices. It doesn't taste like the home brewed latte or the Starbucks version, not at all.<br /><br />I can no longer say I've never used the Keurig. I gave it a try with one of my favorite drinks, but it isn't even close enough to the real thing for the convenience to outweigh the difference in taste. Does the coffee really come out as good as a home brew? I guess that's the deal. I'm not a coffee drinker. So, I just don't get it.<br /><br />I love chai tea lattes. I love Tazo teas. But, I still hate the Keurig.</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-16964167249780552042016-10-28T12:07:00.000-04:002016-10-28T12:07:03.677-04:00Let It Hurt, Let It DieAges ago, during the time in my life before children, my marriage began to fail (we're still together 14 years, three kids, an autism diagnosis and infinite amounts of mercy and grace later), and I sought counsel from a woman who had been through what I was going through and more. She told me many things that have affected my life profoundly, but the one that has resonated and echoed through my mind in every problem I have faced since, was this. "Don't run from the pain. It has a purpose. Let it hurt." At that point in my life in my foolish youthful independence, I did not fully understand those words or the wisdom behind them, but I do now.<br />
<br />
Instinctively we seek a way to make the pain stop. A new relationship to ease the pain of a failing marriage. 'Venting' to anyone who will listen in order to mount ourselves an army of supporters to justify our pain. Rushing into big decisions like marriage or divorce just to feel proactive and on top of our pain. Seeking anything, even good things like obsessively researching the diagnosis we can't quite accept, keeping busy or serving others, anything that will bring us a little comfort.<br />
<br />
This instinct helps us survive, but it doesn't let us thrive.<br />
<br />
Thriving requires using the pain to learn about our humanity and our God. Thriving often requires that we not only let it hurt, but we let it die, as well.<br />
<br />
In John 12:24 Jesus talks about what must happen to a grain of wheat in order for it to grow and bear fruit. It must die. If it does not fall to the ground and give up its 'seedness', its current state of being, it will never be what it was intended to be. It will remain alone and useless.<br />
<br />
Alone and useless.<br />
<br />
When I look back at my life and see the times of greatest suffering, some of the pain was often attached to an unmet desire or unfulfilled dream.<br />
<br />
When I got married, I saw my life happily heading down the path to becoming a Godly accomplished woman, my own personal manifestation of what I had admired in other women of faith. The day my husband asked me for a divorce, I remember thinking, "This can't be happening. I'm 23. I can't be divorced at 23. God, I've made mistakes, but I've tried to live my life for you, Christian college, years of service. How could you abandon me now? Why did You let me marry him if he was just going to leave me? What happened to happily ever after?" There was plenty of real pain, pain over the wrongs committed and the abandonment of my spouse, but much of it was damage to my pride, to my dream of a fairy tale ending, to the life I felt I deserved.<br />
<br />
Like every mother, I gave birth to a myriad of dreams and plans for my children long before I ever saw their face. The day I heard the doctor say "autism spectrum disorder," I found myself grieving as if he had just told me my son would die. Every one of those dreams for this child were shattered with that diagnosis and many things I wanted for my older son and the baby growing inside me at that time were now conflicted with the thought that they would be burdened with the care of their brother if something should happen to me and his father. Much of this pain was from shattered dreams and broken plans, but yet again, much of it was from my feeling like God was mishandling my life, like He had broken an unspoken agreement between us: I live for Him and he protects me from things like this, like an insurance policy.<br />
<br />
The instinct to run from pain, seek an escape from it or a temporary salve for it, is natural, part of being human, as is clinging to our idea of what our life should be like, holding onto our dreams long after they've been shattered. These reactions to life and its inevitable disappointments help us survive when the pain overwhelms us.<br />
<br />
The thing is, like the seed, we were made for more than just surviving.<br />
<br />
Paul wrote that we who are in Christ have been crucified with Him. We are new creatures. Alive in Him and the new life He has given. We have been set free from the confines of a shell and have been given living, breathing, growing power. We are no longer earth bound. So then why do we remain underground, out of the sun, away from the life we were intended to live?<br />
<br />
I believe, especially in my own life, we choose to avoid the pain and hold on to all our dreams and demands, we cling to the life we know and expect to receive. We blame the shell, the dirt, the way God made us. Dying to live doesn't come natural, and we blame that, too. We distract ourselves with 'seed' things, and convince ourselves that the dirt is where we belong. Only, we don't. We set out to accept it. Only, we can't.<br />
<br />
Dying to live is one of those weird opposite concepts put forth in Scripture, things like strength in weakness, freedom in surrender, power in meekness, and it does not come easy or naturally. It is something we have to strive for. We have to allow Christ to live in and through us as we let the old self die and move toward the life he has called us to.<br />
<br />
So, I want to offer a challenge going forward to myself and anyone who reads this. Stop running to the old self, the old dreams, and your former life. Stop living in the dirt. When the pain comes, don't run and hide, don't try to drown it out with busyness or impulsiveness. Embrace it. Allow the Holy Spirit to use it to kill the fear, the worry, the anxiety. Let him work. Let the pain work, and let those impossible expectations for yourself and your children die. Let the past knowledge of weaknesses and preconceived ideas about your abilities and of those around you die. The demands you put on your God as if He owes you something, let them die. Your ungrateful entitlement, let it die. Let your former self die. Then dump the dead weight, leave it in the dirt and reach for the sun. Grow in His love, mercy and goodness. Stretch out your new limbs and live the way He intended you to live. Not just surviving, but thriving.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-35457293249470537132016-10-11T12:05:00.000-04:002016-10-11T12:05:31.746-04:00Lay Down the Sword and Pick Up the CrossI teach an Elementary Sunday School class. This is not something I consider myself particularly good at. However, there was a need, and I stepped up to fill it. I feel nervous and ill equipped before class every Sunday, but often walk away feeling humble and grateful I get to be a part of these precious children's lives.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We taught through different Biblical figures talking about how God changes people. Recently we talked about Peter.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I love Peter. Reading about his life is so encouraging for this fumbling fool who desperately wants to be used but can't seem to get out of her own way. He's got some really amazing highs in his life like walking on water, writing part of the Bible, and being one of the first to preach Christ risen, but the pendulum swings just as far in the other direction with his impulsiveness, his need to correct Jesus, and his denial of Jesus in his most vulnerable time. Reading through John 18 (the text for our lesson), a truth stood out to me that I felt the need to blog. It's nothing new or even really profound. I've heard it preached and read it in books, but I just couldn't help but think scrolling through my social media feeds, it's something we have yet to fully grasp. This is a little more 'preachy' than I like to get on this blog, but the message is powerful and freeing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Like I said, I identify with Peter. One minute he's walking on water to get closer to Jesus, the next minute he's cursing and insisting he doesn't even know who Jesus is. One minute I'm watching miracles happen before my eyes, and the next I'm hoping no one sees the miracle Jesus worked in me.<br />
<br />
Have you ever read about the last night Jesus spent as a free man, and really thought about the details?<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>John 18:1-14<br />1 When Jesus had spoken these words, he went out with his disciples across the brook Kidron, where there was a garden, which he and his disciples entered.</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>2 Now Judas, who betrayed him, also knew the place, for Jesus often met there with his disciples.</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>3 So Judas, having procured a band of soldiers and some officers from the chief priests and the Pharisees, went there with lanterns and torches and weapons.</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>4 Then Jesus, knowing all that would happen to him, came forward and said to them, "Whom do you seek?"</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>5 They answered him, "Jesus of Nazareth." Jesus said to them, "I am he." Judas, who betrayed him, was standing with them.</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>6 When Jesus said to them, "I am he," they drew back and fell to the ground.</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>7 So he asked them again, "Whom do you seek?" And they said, "Jesus of Nazareth."</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>8 Jesus answered, "I told you that I am he. So, if you seek me, let these men go."</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>9 This was to fulfill the word that he had spoken: "Of those whom you gave me I have lost not one."</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>10 Then Simon Peter, having a sword, drew it and struck the high priest's servant and cut off his right ear. (The servant's name was Malchus.)</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>11 So Jesus said to Peter, "Put your sword into its sheath; shall I not drink the cup that the Father has given me?"</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>12 So the band of soldiers and their captain and the officers of the Jews arrested Jesus and bound him.</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>13 First they led him to Annas, for he was the father-in-law of Caiaphas, who was high priest that year.</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>14 It was Caiaphas who had advised the Jews that it would be expedient that one man should die for the people.</i></blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Look closer. Walk through it with me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Judas and the band of soldiers and officers came armed with "lanterns, torches and weapons" (verse 3). Betrayed with a kiss is common vernacular in our society pertaining to that night when Judas kissed Jesus to identify him for capture, and while that did happen, it would appear from this text that Judas and his group of conspirators came ready for a fight.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jesus wouldn't give them one. He stepped forward saying, "I am he." His boldness took them back. They fell to the ground (verse 6). Weapons have no power over the one who created the beings wielding them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Every Christian knows the words Jesus spoke on the cross, "Father, forgive them for they know not what they do." Have you noticed these words, though? "So, if you seek me, let these men go." Spoken to fulfill the words, "Of those whom you gave me I have lost not one." (Verses 8 and 9)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Peter had a sword (verse 10). Anybody else unsettled by that thought? A fisherman who may or may not have ever wielded a weapon before in his life was armed with a sword. Not exactly the picture I have of Jesus and his disciples. Nonetheless, Peter had a sword. Did anyone else have a weapon? Were they all ready to fight? Did they prepare themselves to defend their Savior as if they were the ones doing the saving?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To strengthen the hypothesis that Peter probably didn't have any idea what to do with that sword, he cut off a man's ear. Was he aiming for his head? His neck? His heart? I'm not exactly sure how you cut off an ear and only an ear with a sword, but I do know that these soldiers and officers came armed and ready for a fight. It looks possible that Jesus followers had armed themselves as well. Peter made the first move, but no one else was hurt. A battle did not ensue (verse 10). The words that come to my mind thinking of that moment are Jesus words from the belly of a ship being tossed by the sea, "Peace be still."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jesus' rebuke to Peter wasn't harsh, at least not as harsh as the last one when he referenced Satan. It was just simply, "Put your sword into its sheath." (Verse 11) Jesus, being able to see hearts, thoughts and motives, he is very understanding of our humanity. He knew the anguish Peter was feeling, the fear and desperate need to protect this man he loved so much.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
According to Luke (and only Luke), Jesus healed that man who lost his ear. Jesus spent his night praying, sweating drops of blood begging God for this cup to pass, for him to be able to avoid the torture he knew he would have to endure, and one of his last acts as a free man was healing one of the men who came to take him toward his death. "Shall I not drink the cup that the Father has given me?" (Verse 11) His death wasn't useless suffering. He had a purpose and a plan for it. He had a plan for Peter, a plan for Malchus, and a plan for me. It all culminated in that cup he chose to drink.<br />
<br />
That must have been a very desperate time for Jesus' disciples, though. They didn't fully understand what had to happen. They knew Jesus was the Messiah and God's Son, but he was also their Rabbi, their leader, their friend and their brother. They ate with him, walked with him, talked with him, and loved him. They could feel the growing threat of danger toward Jesus and toward them. Maybe that's why Peter armed himself with a sword. Ready to fulfill his words, "<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Lord, I am ready to go with you both to prison and to death." (</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Luke 22:33) Maybe feeling like the battle was his to fight and not the Lord's, he prepared himself to save his Savior.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In verse 14 Caiaphas "advised the Jews that it would be expedient that one man should die for the people." Now, Caiaphas was trying to restore order and control, but that was exactly what Jesus was doing, dying for the people. ALL the people. No amount of censorship, persecution, torture or murder could stop the Gospel from spreading, and my how it spread, over continents and oceans and centuries to a 6 year old gentile girl in a little country church in a very young nation on a continent they didn't even know existed at that time.</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
Jesus didn't come as a King to amass an army to fight his battles for him. He needs no man to wield a sword on his behalf. He did not come to war with the human beings he created, but to deal the death blow to the real enemy, the one pulling all the strings in a desperate attempt to change his sealed fate or at least inflict as much damage as possible before he loses his freedom. That death blow would not come from a sword in a battle. It would come from the opposite; Jesus would lay down his life, let Satan have his moment, and in that sacrifice, provide a way for us to be restored, for ALL to be restored.</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">There's a lot of that in Jesus' life, a lot of opposites. The last shall be first, the servant shall lead, the lamb will conquer the serpent, blood can make you clean. Strength in weakness. Freedom in surrender. Power in meekness. Jesus came as a carpenter, a servant, a healer seeking the lost and broken to restore them to himself. He didn't send his followers out to destroy those who oppose him. He sent us to l</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">ove our enemies and pray for those who persecute us (</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Matthew 5:44).</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This is what I hope you gather from this text. <b><i>When we arm ourselves to fight a battle that isn't ours, when we strike with our swords to save the man who came to save us, we cut off the ears of those Jesus came to heal. They don't hear the Gospel. They don't see our fighting as bold and undying devotion to our God. They feel the pain from our blow and they bleed.</i></b></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Of those whom you gave me I have lost not one." I have lost not one. Not one.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My dear brother or sister, you cannot be lost. No one can take Jesus from you. </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">You do not need to fear. He will not lose you.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This offense you have taken up, the fight you are fighting is not yours. Jesus doesn't need saving, but the people he has surrounded you with, they do. Desperately. You weren't meant to fight to save Jesus. You were meant to fight for those who need saving. You have been sent to love, to heal, to clothe, to feed, to share the Gospel and speak truth in love. Lay down your sword. Take up your cross, and follow Jesus. He will fight the battle for you, against the real enemy, and he will heal many ears as you turn your cheek, give your cloak, and walk the extra mile.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In panic and confusion, should they come with their weapons to take you by force — and if you believe the Bible, that day is coming, even for us Western Christians — a sword of metal will not provide any hope. The only weapon able to conquer a hatred like that is love.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am living proof that there was more at stake that night than one man's life and ministry. Had Peter succeeded in rescuing Jesus, he would have derailed the entire plan. If Jesus had allowed his followers to fight a battle that was not theirs, we all would have lost him. How many precious souls are lost when we pick up our swords and start swinging in the dark.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Consider the real enemy. Consider the reason Christ came. Consider the call he has placed on your life. Consider the beautiful truth that the love he has for you is the same as the love he has for the soul who opposes you. Consider that your purpose isn't to win the argument but to win the soul of your opponent. Consider the cost of wielding a sword rather than extending a hand. Consider laying down your sword and taking up your cross.</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-30378352574606134052016-07-07T20:17:00.000-04:002016-07-07T21:33:37.865-04:00Do More Than Be SilentMy draft folder is full. I have written many a post on current events only to decide it's better left unpublished. I struggle, wondering most if what I've written would be helpful, or if it would just stir the pot.<br>
<br>This last month, though, has been such a painful month. The shooting massacre in Orlando, the ISIS bombing in Baghdad with so little care expressed, and the African American men killed by police, so much pain, I find myself struggling again. Struggling with words. Struggling with the feeling that I need to say something. Struggling with the questions, "What can I say? What can I do?" <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I have done my best to profess my sympathies and concern in a personal way to those closest to me in these communities, but more and more I feel like I need to say something more public. In an attempt to be helpful, to at least choose not to be silent, I am offering these words to members of the African American community, the LGBT community and to the victims of ISIS in Baghdad.</span><div>
<br>
I see you. I hear you. My heart aches for you. When I say I'm praying, it isn't just lip service. I mean that I have and will continue to tearfully kneel in intercession before my God asking him for healing and peace for your communities, asking him for justice and change in our country and our world, for understanding and direction in my life and in my community.</div><div><br></div><div>When you express your anger and disillusionment, your fear and lack of hope, your graciousness and love even in the presence of hate, I take it in, all of it. I consider every word and lay out my heart to be broken, my mind to be changed and my life to be given in service.<div><br></div><div>I would offer my shoulder, let me cry with you. I would offer my presence, let me stand with you. Let me hold your hand as you walk through the pain, and let me carry some of the burden. Let me pray with you and for you. I know my God loves each and every one of you, and I know he hears from heaven and intervenes.</div><div><br></div><div>He sends people, people like you, people like me, ultimately people like him, created in his image. He sends us to help each other, to learn from each other. Tell me your story and let me learn from you. I give my word, I will listen and hear you, and my silence will then have purpose as I absorb what you share and use it to do more than be silent.</div></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-34611976744192536092015-11-26T19:30:00.001-05:002016-05-11T17:16:59.606-04:00Feeding a Broken Heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"></span></div>
<br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4qdsswsIhof3Un-t81URPn9QSDKbKPWNln1SZWBT9G-xqdWpkgj81RcIl_66Eq2Os3m6UV27fgLRoeWu8FbNBFq5gtwHkrZbS_SP_zK-0Q2kWIVmaBubOwRfUfZBwE6p52GD_e4Xd6c/s640/blogger-image--111931831.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4qdsswsIhof3Un-t81URPn9QSDKbKPWNln1SZWBT9G-xqdWpkgj81RcIl_66Eq2Os3m6UV27fgLRoeWu8FbNBFq5gtwHkrZbS_SP_zK-0Q2kWIVmaBubOwRfUfZBwE6p52GD_e4Xd6c/s640/blogger-image--111931831.jpg"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sweet potato casserole with both nuts and marshmallows.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
In my Memaw's house, there was one cure for every ailment, love, and while that love may have taken on many forms over the years, it was usually expressed with food, all kinds of food. Holidays or just weekly dinners at her house, if she knew your favorite, it would be waiting for you at her table. Even if you were the only one in the house who would eat it, even if you protested her going through all the trouble, it was always there. If you were sick or sad, that called for special measures, and she pulled out all the stops. If you had something to celebrate, you could bet she would find a special food to fit the occasion.</div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Her recipe collection was extensive. She was always trying something new, testing another recipe on her all too willing subjects, the grandkids. I remember her talking about the failures she made, but oddly, I don't ever remember tasting one.</span></div><div><br></div><div>She put together a book of recipes for everyone a few years back, and my favorites are the ones in her own handwriting. We used to talk about the recipes in there, the ones she wanted to try, the ones I had tried. I called her as a new bride embarrassed I didn't even know how to make mashed potatoes from real potatoes. She laughed, told me what to do, and shared a couple stories about her cooking as a newlywed to make me feel better. I called her for holiday recipes when I wasn't able to make it home to her table for the meal. I sat and brainstormed with her when I learned of Jackson's allergies. I called her when I tried something new, just to share it with her. I loved talking with her about food. It was never a dull conversation, and more often than not, I walked away feeling more loved.</div>
<div>
<br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0CI5pvABDPSQucsdna3eOTDVthlVwIMi1iTitvrVnvr-bIugE_cSjZU4tebwZzaOxgG-DhJz6aYib-Xf_HM-M-RXMbKbD6zBVXyo5J7_E5vaFrOVP2ooH6k1-P8PYJl9TSvG1Qm0gsiw/s640/blogger-image--368654267.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0CI5pvABDPSQucsdna3eOTDVthlVwIMi1iTitvrVnvr-bIugE_cSjZU4tebwZzaOxgG-DhJz6aYib-Xf_HM-M-RXMbKbD6zBVXyo5J7_E5vaFrOVP2ooH6k1-P8PYJl9TSvG1Qm0gsiw/s640/blogger-image--368654267.jpg"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet potato casserole in her casserole dish on her buffet table.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She used to tell me how proud she was of me, working so hard to cook for Jackson, making sure he had the best food possible. She used to say she didn't think she could have done it, which always blew my mind because I always thought she's where I got my need to feed. I heard similar words from others in my life, but her compliments meant the world to me because I knew food was her love language. I knew she was telling me she was proud of how I loved him.<br><br>She passed away in October, at 90 years old. This Thanksgiving, my family is scattered, but I know we all feel her absence. This Holiday in particular is hard because it's about food and family, exactly how you would describe her heart if you could only use two words, food and family. I had a few teary moments getting ready this morning, but as I prepared the sweet potato casserole, the dam burst. A flood of memories came to my mind, followed by a flood of tears.<br><br>It all came as I pulled out the casserole dish she gave me before she moved the last time. Her ability to cook had left her, and she wanted me to have some of her dishes. Today, reaching in, anxious to get it in the oven, I took one look and fell apart.<br><br>She didn't have a special recipe for sweet potato casserole, but she was the first person I called when I was trying to figure out my own. She said she liked the marshmallows on top, but Granny (her mom) liked the nuts until she couldn't eat them any more. I remember telling her, after I had figured it out, that I liked to do both, and then giggling with her about how that seemed like the perfect solution. I loved her giggle.<br><br>I'm grateful she gave me her casserole dishes before she moved. I'm also thankful for every recipe she left behind. They're like memories with taste and smell, like she's still here loving me even though she's gone. I know she's much happier now than when she was here stuck in that failing body, but I miss her so very much. And, I can't wait until we're feasting together in heaven, and I never have to tell her goodbye again.<br><br>Happy Thanksgiving, and a special prayer for peace and comfort if you have an empty seat at the table this year.</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-87658113508444071762015-11-11T11:28:00.000-05:002015-11-11T11:30:44.334-05:00Public Apology<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7hVuksHFiSvAUMDVkgXgvYV-Bx3eK57Z6uVh_eCL0X8DUb5SURSdcIG6PsOqWsNGzyiUJ847Xh7Zux6dtap2bxGDggczjgulR4eusQhpeQA2RQzFNg__bKA5zjsUc5HxpFSbD_vbopA/s1600/399555_10150451031073878_1711468725_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7hVuksHFiSvAUMDVkgXgvYV-Bx3eK57Z6uVh_eCL0X8DUb5SURSdcIG6PsOqWsNGzyiUJ847Xh7Zux6dtap2bxGDggczjgulR4eusQhpeQA2RQzFNg__bKA5zjsUc5HxpFSbD_vbopA/s320/399555_10150451031073878_1711468725_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So, reading back through my first paragraph,<br />
I decided I was pretty much describing my Memaw.<br />
She passed in October, and I miss her so very much.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
You know those people who are on top of things, who always know what to say for every situation, the people who always give the best gifts with the best cards at the perfect times, those who organize their calendars and never forget important dates or commitments, the people you can drop in on and always feel welcome finding a neat house with something cooking or brewing, those people you know you can count on when you need them because they are just those kind of people? I'm not one of those people. I want to be. I really do, but I feel like I might have dug a hole so big, it might be easier to just keep digging and find my way to the other side of the world.<br />
<br />
If there were a need, I think I might be able to teach a class on what NOT to say in certain situations. There's a running commentary in the back of my head of all the terrible things I've said to people. Dumb things at weddings, baby showers, even funerals. If I'm able to respond in writing, I'm much better, but you can't be in a hurry because I have to type it out and mull over it. And, let's not even talk about Facebook. Even though, technically, it's in writing, there's something about that medium that lends itself to really stupid comments, of which I think I might be in the running for the most stupid.<br />
<br />
I am probably the worst gift giver alive, and I am painfully aware that it is NOT the thought that counts. I've seen enough polite smiles and heard enough insincere thank yous to know the truth about just how much the thought counts. I'm always thinking about people, praying for people, but when it comes time to show it in a tangible way like a birthday or wedding, it's bad. Really bad. When you're married to someone who needs the thought AND the gift, i.e. the thoughtful gift, it's just plain awful. Too often, if I don't know what to give, I don't give. Another reason it isn't the thought that counts. I can think about it all day long, but if it never materializes into a gift, then it's like I didn't think about it at all.<br />
<br />
My calendar looks like a 4 year old sat down with a box of crayons and created a masterpiece. There's no room for error, but it happens every week. I forget something, some activity, some important date, and sadly the people attached to those activities and dates suffer. It breaks my heart. I promise, I usually remember, but it's often not until midnight or 5 am the next day. Then I spend the rest of the time trying to figure out how to make it up to whoever or whatever I forgot, then I never get around to that either.<br />
<br />
I think the last time I sent out a thank you note was my wedding. That's 13 years ago for those of you who don't know. I LOVE getting them. I know it's important. I plan every birthday or event to do better, but I just can't manage to pull it off. I've almost decided that the next time I send out invitations to an event, I'll just slip the thank you note into those. Be proactive, you know.<br />
<br />
I crave order and neatness, but I usually end up with C.H.A.O.S. (Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome). I love to cook and feed people. I love how the early church worked, food and fellowship, and I crave that in my own life. I have always wanted a home with an open door for anyone who needed a meal, a place to stay and/or a listening ear, but when you home school during the day and have one or more activities each night of the week with at least two activities on the weekend, you don't have room for a neat home and a home cooked meal not to mention a place at the table for the surprise guest.<br />
<br />
I think the worst problem about being so busy and absent minded is the fact that I don't feel trustworthy or stable. It's in my nature to help and nurture people. I want so much to be that person you can call knowing you can count on me, and it hurts me to say I can't help.<br />
<br />
I'm a mess. For real, and I'm always surprised at the people who still feel like I love them. I'm even more surprised at the people who really know me and still love me. Not that I'm unloveable, but the longer you know me, the more frustrating all my absent mindedness can get.<br />
<br />
So, here's my public apology, all typed out and mulled over.<br />
<br />
I'm praying for things to change, if not anywhere else but in my own heart. I want that running commentary of all the stupid things I've said to stop playing. I want to let go of all the failures and forgotten things and move on from here not trying so hard to get it all right. I want to really believe that praying isn't nothing. That sometimes it's enough to remember the people I love while I'm on my knees in communion with my God. I want to allow God to change how I view success and failure in my life. I want to accept the fact that I cannot work harder or do better, that I must rest in Jesus and allow him to make the difference in my life and in the lives of those I'm called to reach. As strange as it is, I want to believe He does know best. That I need to be still to be busy, slow down to go faster, and rest to get more done.<br />
<br />
Help me, Lord Jesus.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-49389083888811910172015-09-17T10:09:00.000-04:002015-09-17T10:11:26.981-04:00We do the loving. He does the changing.The gospel isn't different for different groups of people. It doesn't change based on need or ability.<br /><br />The gospel for the homeless isn't to get off the street.<br /><br />The gospel for the depressed isn't to choose to be happy.<br /><br />The gospel for the gay or lesbian person isn't to be straight.<br /><br />The gospel for the alcoholic isn't sobriety.<br /><br />The gospel for the workaholic isn't to balance work and family.<br /><br />The gospel for the sex addict isn't to control themselves.<br /><br />The gospel for the obese isn't to get skinny.<br /><br />The gospel for the church lady isn't to just keep being perfect.<br /><br />The specifics of our faults, flaws and struggles are irrelevant.<br /><br />The gospel isn't about fixing us. It's not about correcting a real or perceived fault in our lives so that we fit a better mold. It isn't about making perfect little followers that look nice in the church pew.<br /><br />The Gospel is the revelation of Christ. It is Jesus and his saving truth. It is the good news of his deity, his sinless life, his sacrificial death, his burial and triumphant resurrection by which he offers life everlasting to all who seek Him.<br /><br />ALL who seek him. And those who find him, he called to seek others and lead them to Him. Seek them, not fix them. Lead them to him, not force them into our chosen church culture. He's the one that heals and changes. His people are here to lead the lost to a savior, to bear burdens, to fill bellies, to share cloaks, to turn cheeks, to offer love to the lonely and hope to the hopeless. We are here to work and serve together showing God's love and healing to others, something we are only able to do as we allow his love and healing to change us first.<br /><br />Jesus didn't come and die so we could be popular and successful. He came to change us, to make us more like him, to allow him to use our hands, feet and hearts to love the world and everyone in it, the homeless, depressed, gay, lesbian, alcoholic, addict, obese, church lady and every other person we come into contact with. We do the loving. He does the changing.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-59143306538276083112015-06-08T09:42:00.003-04:002015-06-08T09:46:14.962-04:00I Think God is BeautifulI haven’t done a serious post in a while. I tend to be a pretty transparent person, and I’m ok with sharing all kinds of things many people wouldn’t dare. I’ve been warned by other mommy bloggers, though, that while being transparent with those I interact with on a daily basis can be a very good thing, being too transparent on my blog could be a problem, especially in this culture of outrage we live in. I've been warned to weigh it out and decide if I'm prepared for the potential backlash. I don’t think there are too many people that follow this blog that don’t actually know me in person, but I can see the potential issue with misinterpretation or that nastiness that too often comes out when generally decent people get behind a screen. I've been there, on both sides. It's not pretty.<br />
<br />
However, I have dozens of posts in my draft folder, posts that flowed out in great urgency and through tears and prayer, posts that would ultimately not be published because I wasn’t sure I wanted to put those raw feelings out into cyberspace. Posts on feminism, sexism, racism, terrorism, marriage equality, the church, the government and my little dot on the map. Serious political, emotional, controversial stuff, not really what I usually post on this blog. Sometimes I wonder if something happened to me, would anyone go through my draft folder? What would they think? Would they delete it all as the ranting of a crazy person or publish it all as powerful words from the grave? Maybe I should clean that folder out. Or not. Or write a post with instructions about what to do with everything in it if something did happen to me. Or just hold onto them all and ponder the courage it would take to hit that little orange button and put it all out there.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I do post about my son with autism and food allergies. My most popular posts are my recipes, but many posts about our specific issues with his development are frequently visited, too. Having reached a very manageable point in his development, there’s not much to write lately. Sometimes I wonder if this is just the calm before the storm. Puberty is coming, and I wonder sometimes if that mixed with autism will throw me a curveball or just go haywire like a possessed pitching machine. Time will only tell, but every now and then, I’m reminded of the different way he thinks. Sometimes it adds a certain level of frustration. More often than not, though, he moves me to tears or changes the way I see things in our little conversations.<br />
<br />
The other night he asked me in all seriousness, "What does God look like?"<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I stopped for a moment to consider my answer because this is the child that panicked at the Sunday School verbiage about God coming into his heart. His literal reasoning told him that trying to fit something as big as God into something as small as his heart would likely be painful if not deadly. I knew I had to be careful in how I answered this question. I couldn't go to Revelation and the description of Jesus, although that's the most literal way to go about answering that question. I didn't feel like that was what he was asking. He asked me as if I would know because I've seen God. I love how he assumes I know the answers to his hugely complicated spiritual questions, and as I considered what to say, my heart became overwhelmed by the answer and what I desperately wanted to teach him about who God is.<br />
<br />
So, my answer?<br />
<br />
"God looks like you. He looks like me. He created us in his image and for his glory. That means that every bit of our humanity, your boyness, my girlness, our hearts, our souls and our minds, it all started with him. So, when you want to know what God looks like, look at the people around you. You can find him in every face you see."<br />
<br />
We talked until his little mind was satisfied, and after we prayed and I told him to go to sleep, he told me, "I think God is beautiful." He was satisfied, but I walked out of his room with tears in my eyes and a very heavy heart. Oh, how I wish the world saw itself the way he does, the way God does.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When you love God with all your heart, your soul and mind, then loving the humans around you is easier. You can love the boy with the straight limbs and great athletic ability and the girl bound to a wheelchair and a feeding tube because you can see God in them. You can love the beautiful woman dressed to the nines and the homeless man wearing everything he owns because in their eyes you see God. You can love the people who look and speak different from you. You can love the people who disagree with you, those who pick on you. You can love the bully, the mean girl, and the person who goes out of their way to be friends with everyone. When you love God and seek his face, you can even love the angry man who may take your life because he sees a God he hates in you. You can love like that because God IS love, and the more you seek him the more like him you will be. The more you seek him the more you see him in the people around you. Seek his face, and you'll find it in the lost and hurting around you.<br />
<br />
I could blog about every current event and issue we face right now and do little more than toss my drop of water into the ocean, or I could love like Jesus and create the kind of current that guides lost vessels to safe harbor, the most important of those vessels being my children. I can teach them about prejudice and injustice, or I can lead them into a relationship with the God who knows no such thing. I can teach them to seek the God who is no respecter of persons, the God who loves the persecutor and the persecuted, the discriminator and the discriminated, the God who sees into the broken soul of every human being and desires to heal and restore each one to himself above all else.<br />
<br />
That is who God is, and that's what he looks like, like you and me reaching out in healing and restoration. I found myself on my knees begging God to help me teach my children that one thing, because I feel like even if I get everything else wrong, seeking the God who created them and loving every other person he created, there is nothing more right.<br />
<br />
I don't think I will ever forget those precious little words, "I think God is beautiful." Yes, Baby, he most certainly is.</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-30516289282358942122015-06-03T08:59:00.000-04:002015-06-03T08:59:25.474-04:00Pinterest Success: Pizza WafflesYou know those things you see on Pinterest and think, cool idea, but after you try it you realize it's just a poorly thought out theory. Or, at least, for someone with your skill set. Well, I saw this cool idea on Pinterest.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlwHrYu77wLov0NP-h91Pc17hlz8sEdAjqxkKcO-a0lbfA1-ezR6HRnjZhd7Ro9wBMC5PE8FAHeP84flKEV0YzNMt39ikplU6xHh67CvU6w1t4Stvg6EAXldcHdxo_lIGseSrNH29eRkk/s640/blogger-image--1743094151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlwHrYu77wLov0NP-h91Pc17hlz8sEdAjqxkKcO-a0lbfA1-ezR6HRnjZhd7Ro9wBMC5PE8FAHeP84flKEV0YzNMt39ikplU6xHh67CvU6w1t4Stvg6EAXldcHdxo_lIGseSrNH29eRkk/s640/blogger-image--1743094151.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Pizza rolls on the waffle iron? Awesome. I had to try it. The pin used biscuit dough which isn't possible for my kiddo. So, I used premade pizza dough from the grocery store. I rolled it out, and cut circles out with a biscuit cutter.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiux-6VhbtyMxMzCuhwaXQWzw1Bd_nXYFnAl57iU9TqH-eeot6gBjA1ZLVb21axNEpciU-lL_14YFygOHj0UIjrgsxn4AUmEhc-FdF4_f3vE3YNyk-94hd-jxn8LLhopTp57ni-vY6EJgE/s640/blogger-image--794257008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiux-6VhbtyMxMzCuhwaXQWzw1Bd_nXYFnAl57iU9TqH-eeot6gBjA1ZLVb21axNEpciU-lL_14YFygOHj0UIjrgsxn4AUmEhc-FdF4_f3vE3YNyk-94hd-jxn8LLhopTp57ni-vY6EJgE/s640/blogger-image--794257008.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, I smooshed the handle pushing down on the dough.<br />Why is the handle even there? I usually push down on the sides anyway.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then I filled it with marinara, cheese and whatever toppings each person wanted.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdsB-TsDIGaYOUCpzld7TgQ7xAQMuCXZW-hVC5CkEzeF2nOhw_e-xSF2ZL48B3pLpz-lkaFWYqqlwi9vt226VgmVv7vRMaK3Enb_Ls2YqpdyHQt7dhNIskSdpJYDoeFvxKExygl06nfLU/s640/blogger-image--2093924146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdsB-TsDIGaYOUCpzld7TgQ7xAQMuCXZW-hVC5CkEzeF2nOhw_e-xSF2ZL48B3pLpz-lkaFWYqqlwi9vt226VgmVv7vRMaK3Enb_Ls2YqpdyHQt7dhNIskSdpJYDoeFvxKExygl06nfLU/s640/blogger-image--2093924146.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How cute is that little pizza? I almost wanted to stick it in the oven,<br />but onto the waffle iron it went.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
I put spinach and garlic in mine. The kids wanted bacon and/or ham. I did a few with just sauce and cheese.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTzeSckkzzMUfv95957axzAM70sRy8SJq0luDZvcfhVcdWwVx4aijdU8dNXr2d00mVBCIdYmkfUQOQ1ZMVXetcaIEHhBTNx0ainW7SPUiccXQhlkmUithJOKNf4bMks1gonteYR5HkzMM/s640/blogger-image-1691010298.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTzeSckkzzMUfv95957axzAM70sRy8SJq0luDZvcfhVcdWwVx4aijdU8dNXr2d00mVBCIdYmkfUQOQ1ZMVXetcaIEHhBTNx0ainW7SPUiccXQhlkmUithJOKNf4bMks1gonteYR5HkzMM/s640/blogger-image-1691010298.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">This was my tester roll, the one I put on there to see<br />if it would explode or otherwise ruin my waffle iron.<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgucCNkoW9SM38KS2tUhmyoGeVGaS19qQzkzg5TwgG3uTDjrR8tJ8h9r9se2nDx2jF2UzYHI_BnyOR67NhqIQI1PnJeKbf6t-GFxCGSPwlgQAnIktZpKMXrLN8hS-sjbDzs9dBp5qPwPLw/s640/blogger-image--277730865.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgucCNkoW9SM38KS2tUhmyoGeVGaS19qQzkzg5TwgG3uTDjrR8tJ8h9r9se2nDx2jF2UzYHI_BnyOR67NhqIQI1PnJeKbf6t-GFxCGSPwlgQAnIktZpKMXrLN8hS-sjbDzs9dBp5qPwPLw/s640/blogger-image--277730865.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Success! It did not explode OR ruin my waffle iron.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96PzohMpXDX91bFhUkvvFKmG7K6z3s175GwBBjAovSGFmtP-lKXx3dyX5gAuqeLVIW960uXhFn8EjfwKcwS-Wvnskfh1C_EUIBpbh1czuTfHRZBB-4z4Yrea6Ol3mzb-xhwTitQ1RKK0/s640/blogger-image-1037050585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96PzohMpXDX91bFhUkvvFKmG7K6z3s175GwBBjAovSGFmtP-lKXx3dyX5gAuqeLVIW960uXhFn8EjfwKcwS-Wvnskfh1C_EUIBpbh1czuTfHRZBB-4z4Yrea6Ol3mzb-xhwTitQ1RKK0/s640/blogger-image-1037050585.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Super yummy, and easy enough the kids can do it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm excited that I had a Pinterest success, and that this is potentially something I can make and send with my crazy picky daughter for school lunch.</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-70325893538606812982015-02-08T15:55:00.000-05:002015-02-08T19:43:45.855-05:00On Record, Off PinterestYou know how people claim to hate social media because they hate seeing all the perfect people posting their perfect lives and it upsets them because either they know it isn't true or they compare themselves and come up short? (I get irritated when people post so much negative it makes me want to block them from my news feed, but that's a topic for another day.)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, mommies be scrolling through Facebook to 'connect' or flipping through Pinterest thinking they'll be inspired only to find themselves giving up, popping the top off a carton of Ben and Jerry's and starting an all night binge of Parenthood or Law and Order. Oh, wait, maybe that's just me. Anyway, the pressure is enormous. We can't just be good moms anymore, we have to be fit and healthy, fun and funny, perfectly styled, perfectly organized, always ready for a photo shoot or impromptu dinner guests serving the healthiest foods of course. These days it's easy to feel like you have to be June Cleaver mixed with Martha Stewart plus a little Ellen Degeneres and Beyoncé to round out the edges.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I had surgery over the Summer, and it was a little surprising to me how many of my friends saw me as a super mom. There was real concern that my children might starve or turn into vagabonds roaming the streets searching for someone to care for them. I might be exaggerating, just a little, but I heard it from more than one friend insisting that they bring us food and help in some way. My poor children suffering without their perfect mom being perfect. (Awesome people, too bad I'm super crappy at accepting help.) During all that I decided I must be WAY better at hiding the crazy than I thought. So, that's a plus. Go me!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway, there actually was a time in my life when I tried insanely hard to be crafty and creative in a fun mom sorta way. I have spent countless hours and many sleepless nights in the kitchen cranking out allergy safe food and fun healthy treats for each of my kids' class functions (mostly Jackson). I got really good at scratch cooking inadvertently ruining my appetite for many store bought and even restaurant made food. My kids will quote me, "this is good, but mine's better." I can make my own fondant from scratch, and then mold it into things like fish and mermaids, and it doesn't taste like cardboard paste. Seriously. I can make killer cinnamon rolls, fresh breads, even bagels, and according to my kids, I make better nuggets than Chick Fil A. On top of that, I can paint portraits and mold clay into tigers complete with realistic fur. Plus write awesome blog posts that only people who know me read. Clearly, the ability is there, but the time and desire no longer exist.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The time is gone because we're overscheduled. I have 3 talented, smart kids and a need for everything to be fair. That probably comes from being the middle child. So, they are all three very involved in several different activities. I love it for them, but it stretches mommy pretty thin.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The desire isn't there because I know what makes my kids think I'm the best mom ever, and it's not found on Pinterest. Well, that and the fact that when I do have free time, I'd rather be running or reading or sleeping. Sleeping is my favorite!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The point is, I'm ok NOT being super mom, well at least the version of super mom I see floating around the Internet these days, but I think my desire to stay mostly positive might paint a different picture of my life.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Most of what I do is not Pinterest worthy. And, even the stuff I post is edited. I think it's just the polite thing to do. You do NOT wanna see selfies from my bedroom with the hashtag #wokeuplikethis, nor do you want to see carefully filtered pics of the empty takeout containers cluttering the table on the all too often night I was too busy to bother with dinner. I don't think anyone wants to hear me complain or rant or post unkempt photos. At least not as often as they happen in real life. Right? How 'bout an amen from all my moms who understand the behind the scenes is very different from the highlight reel.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
See this picture?<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH6SuniSSf4Es5gzzvmmSNXC44GLhjhl8ByWQMTQhQkRaV3I_enm0cF7YK4SpgfC49avZmYf-KJj990Ezm0_tGJXm8K_8tpog79kvYU1FOl_lBr4M6BKYoPImHz3hjZdXWZFkQIDFvoaQ/s640/blogger-image--1747466830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH6SuniSSf4Es5gzzvmmSNXC44GLhjhl8ByWQMTQhQkRaV3I_enm0cF7YK4SpgfC49avZmYf-KJj990Ezm0_tGJXm8K_8tpog79kvYU1FOl_lBr4M6BKYoPImHz3hjZdXWZFkQIDFvoaQ/s640/blogger-image--1747466830.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fat, funny looking little things</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
This is the Pinterest image of the snack I was supposed to bring to school for my daughter's special snack day. All the moms have to do a few each year, and there is a calendar with instructions in our parent binders from the school. It's Kindergarten, and apparently the transition from preschool to grade school requires special treats on Fridays. This is my third time through this, and the magic has faded. Especially since I made an allergy safe version of EVERY one of these treats EVERY Friday the entire school year for my last kindergartner. I'm special treated out, but because she's precious and I don't like being the mom that drops the ball, well at least not on purpose, I planned to suck it up and get it done.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To start things off, we lost the binder. The parent binder her teacher gave out to every parent with all the special instructions for the class that had printed on the cover, "please return at the end of the year." Yeah, that binder. I had to ask other moms in the class to post a pic of this week's snack so I knew what to do. Fortunately I was able to find the same snack on Pinterest for further instructions (hence the pic above).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Did I mention I hate Rice Krispie treats? Well, at least the ones made with store bought marshmallows. I make my own, of course, but there was no time for that. Can you hear it, "these are good, but mine are better." Yeah, as I was saying...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All the kids are in bed, my husband is settled on the couch and I set to work creating these little monsters, uh I mean darlings. I can melt butter and marshmallows and mix in the Rice Krispies, among other culinary feats I consider impressive since I'm not a chef, but apparently I can't mold this sticky mess into snow men.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The racket from the kitchen drew my husband in. I would imagine like a train wreck, you just have to look. Amid my complaining, "Why couldn't it be cupcakes? I can handle cupcakes....I hate store bought marshmallows....My hands are covered in butter. Why is it still sticking to my hands?....They might end up with Rice Krispie bars with snowmen faces drawn on. That I can do. I can sculpt animals from clay, but I can't make a decent ball out of stupid Rice Krispies."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't really remember what he said, but I do remember how effortlessly he picked up a glob and rolled it into a ball. The ultimate "I can do anything you can do better" taunt. Only he didn't taunt me. He jumped in and started rolling more balls amid my complaining that he still wasn't doing it right and that I had already decided on a plan B. Pretty much how I handle unwanted assistance across the board. He showed me how, and I started rolling, too, very irritated by the fact that my left brained, math/science minded husband was showing me up. Pretty soon we had 11 little snow men (one for each kid, the teacher and her assistant) but no icing to stick on all the candy embellishments. "Icing wasn't on the list of ingredients. I have to have some in the pantry somewhere!" Yeah, if I hadn't abandoned my kitchen exploration for baseball and ballet. All the icing tubes were rock hard and expired. I suppose we should have rolled faster and used the still sticky marshmallow goo to adhere all the pieces. Whatever.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, while I was busy washing uniforms and packing back packs, he went to the store to get some icing to use for glue. It was nearly midnight, and he was ready for bed not midnight shopping at Walmart. Of course, he probably could have gone just like he was and no one would have noticed, or someone would have noticed, snapped a pic and immortalized him on the 'People of Walmart' page. Anyway, he returns and starts shaping scarves out of fruit roll ups.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I started 'gluing' on chocolate chip eyes, and jelly bean hats. He even complimented me on how the white icing looked surrounding the candy buttons.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We're gonna pause right here to interject the fact that this man has pushed me to the worst moments of my life. I have contemplated, even filed for divorce (didn't follow through, obviously) and considered murdering him in his sleep on more than one occasion, but at this moment, calmly (I HATE how he can stay calm when I'm falling apart) and carefully helping me, I remembered why I married him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is how they turned out.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRr7YVGOjyg6DWlH-D_UkNvVPocMOL9TDXSCAqgmSr3kbwwehc2HysSBbf-Fdv2rUwvN7CBrnI7PnDHxt8Q_mQKCM8fA1wsdEHNQHydq8NbmGdvUt2TpE63UW9c8rMT7HtGwoUGvWPWE/s640/blogger-image-1193210909.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRr7YVGOjyg6DWlH-D_UkNvVPocMOL9TDXSCAqgmSr3kbwwehc2HysSBbf-Fdv2rUwvN7CBrnI7PnDHxt8Q_mQKCM8fA1wsdEHNQHydq8NbmGdvUt2TpE63UW9c8rMT7HtGwoUGvWPWE/s640/blogger-image-1193210909.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think they kinda look like little evil clowns,<br />
but you know, I like hating on Rice Krispie snowmen lately.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Certainly not perfect, but close enough. Not one single snowman made it home. They were each completely and, according to my daughter, happily devoured. Mission accomplished. And, if I had just posted like usual, I would have posted the pic without all the back story and let you think I'm a Pinterest genious, or at least a fun mom with some crafty good skills and a hubby who helped, IF I was feeling generous enough to include him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I looked at our creations, snapped a pic, and then panicked, "Oh, great, I haven't planned out an outfit for me. What am I gonna wear? I can't go in running clothes. Can I?" To which my husband replied in my favorite quote to date, "How 'bout some yoga pants or leggings?" (Inside joke, #butyouwanttotalkaboutleggings.) Then after a good laugh and shamefully without a thank you from me, he quietly retired leaving me to transfer my irrational panic onto what I would use to cover my body. Don't worry, I came to my senses and thanked him the next day. ;-)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, please keep posting your adorable kid shots in the one spot of your house that doesn't look like a tornado hit it, and your gorgeous selfies that make me jealous because I'm so very awkward with those. I keep trying though; I'm gonna get it figured out. Please keep posting all your accomplishments. I really do want to see your adorable cupcakes and yummy dinners. The European vacations your husband surprised you with, and your girls night out shots that make me miss college. I know it's not like that always. I have plenty to edit out of my film reel, too, but the highlights, they're fun and inspiring. I like them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of course, I like real and honest, too. Just don't dis on yourself too bad. You're so great the way you are, every wrinkle and gray hair, every yelling fit that could easily be aired on Jerry Springer. God sees it all and loves you anyway; so, I can, too. And, when you scroll through Pinterest or Facebook and start feeling like you must be the most boring untalented person on the planet, remember the best things in life aren't found on Pinterest.</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-45845716479985802862014-12-27T12:26:00.003-05:002014-12-27T12:32:32.983-05:00Homemade Bagels<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMP2_0QkELTkhDidcEAIEsD55t9uHEWmOdeVwabhSZjtME9bwHg5vcwDa3c6HTo4rna2NYkdgr0pFiZweA0a5Xb0GXM6LOJJBswLbTi7Bd2h9FziLEN79EgJX1SXlUeaoca9tIazdRzg/s1600/Bagel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMP2_0QkELTkhDidcEAIEsD55t9uHEWmOdeVwabhSZjtME9bwHg5vcwDa3c6HTo4rna2NYkdgr0pFiZweA0a5Xb0GXM6LOJJBswLbTi7Bd2h9FziLEN79EgJX1SXlUeaoca9tIazdRzg/s1600/Bagel.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
A few months ago, a bakery went in very close to my house. I was excited to see what they had in store, day dreaming of yummy fresh bread and novelties. Turns out they're more about cakes and events, but they did have things like muffins and bagels. I was excited and tried to talk to the sales person about how they make them. She didn't know and had to find out. When she returned from asking the owner, she told me they were from a mix. I was very disappointed. Why would I pay more for the bagels there at their bakery, when they could very well use the same mix Publix or Kroger uses? Dough conditioners and corn products included. I had thought about making bagels off and on on my own since Jackson got big enough to enjoy something like that, but I've never really had the equipment to manage it.<br />
<br />
My last post on this blog was November 4th. My last recipe post was on September 22nd, AND the last time I experimented with something for Jackson? Well, it was a while ago, too far for me to scroll through. We've been surviving on our staples, but I got this beautiful thing for Christmas...<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx73aLIIitM35T6NItjJHEdKfluBuuKOXjwDqBZK3m6ui7e6hZnlvCBRpMcP99IQYXZolsA6Ll5sCjER_Gq-cmXKCs_bKBwXxys9JU7msq1iH3mfMb8GnEMNDs9PWgAx10DSFs24-FhSo/s640/blogger-image-376368922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx73aLIIitM35T6NItjJHEdKfluBuuKOXjwDqBZK3m6ui7e6hZnlvCBRpMcP99IQYXZolsA6Ll5sCjER_Gq-cmXKCs_bKBwXxys9JU7msq1iH3mfMb8GnEMNDs9PWgAx10DSFs24-FhSo/s640/blogger-image-376368922.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've wanted one of these since Jackson was Dx with food allergies.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And the first thing I thought was, now I can try making bagels. I had been told by several people not to even attempt it without a good stand mixer. This baby is the best; so, Merry Christmas to me. *squeal*<br />
<br />
Oh, and, that first pic above is with my DSLR. The rest of these photos are from my iPhone. It's just easier right now.<br />
<br />
So, first things first, the recipe. I combined things from the recipe on the back of the King Arthur Flour I ordered and the <a href="http://www.cooksillustrated.com/" target="_blank">Cooks Illustrated</a> recipe I found. (Love my online subscription and app with them. Definitely worth it!)<br />
<br />
What you'll need.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04UCrTLLpvcE6M0KiBVx-LjimiDT5HDNvnP-RvSSAEwz9q_xR_rZAK3-cfS7jAc_LvQjka_lFWUNN7e45qUXab7t8iLvs7PA7s0w_Iw2tW-ZinrM4jonUMArt6nle8GWEbAZoMTyDf5w/s640/blogger-image--1194841754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04UCrTLLpvcE6M0KiBVx-LjimiDT5HDNvnP-RvSSAEwz9q_xR_rZAK3-cfS7jAc_LvQjka_lFWUNN7e45qUXab7t8iLvs7PA7s0w_Iw2tW-ZinrM4jonUMArt6nle8GWEbAZoMTyDf5w/s640/blogger-image--1194841754.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
You're gonna need high protein flour. I used <a href="http://www.kingarthurflour.com/" target="_blank">King Arthur Flour</a> brand Sir Lancelot flour. I ordered it from them along with the instant yeast you see here. It's different from the active dry yeast you buy in the grocery store. Then, I used malted barley syrup, but you can get it as a powder, too. That I got from Amazon (you can get the powder from King Arthur, too). I just added the syrup to the yeast mixture in stead of the flour mixture before combining. Then just salt and water. There are little differences between the recipes, and in stead of telling you which thing came from which recipe, I'm just going to tell you what I did.<br />
<br />
4 Cups high protein flour<br />
1 Tbsp instant yeast (if you're using the active dry yeast, I think it's 1 1/2 tsp)<br />
2 tsp salt<br />
1 Tbsp barley malt syrup or powder (I think King Arthur's is called non-diastatic malt powder)<br />
1 1/2 Cups lukewarm water<br />
<br />
Whisk together the dry ingredients in the bowl of your stand mixer fitted with a dough hook. In a small bowl or mixing cup, combine the water, the yeast and the syrup. Let it activate for a bit, then stir together before adding to the mixer bowl. Mix at lowest speed until the dough starts to come together, about 4-5 minutes. Then increase it to speed 2 and mix until the dough is cohesive, smooth and stiff, about 8-10 minutes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyMfeUHcleMIEanOOmQ4wzxJW9eKZHrBrd34RtQTS2diw0PGFdMpWQWuae9iJ3TlAnhsunxJQRTopKvFNRkXe94tp1MshSgg3GlkPYz7eU0LAro-9ELq_goBrIXs6vSDKIQ_njOfJhhRw/s640/blogger-image--1480510364.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyMfeUHcleMIEanOOmQ4wzxJW9eKZHrBrd34RtQTS2diw0PGFdMpWQWuae9iJ3TlAnhsunxJQRTopKvFNRkXe94tp1MshSgg3GlkPYz7eU0LAro-9ELq_goBrIXs6vSDKIQ_njOfJhhRw/s640/blogger-image--1480510364.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aren't they adorable!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Take the dough out of the mixer and onto your work surface. Divide it into 8 portions. I formed a ball, then used a very sharp knife to cut it like a fat pizza into 8 triangle parts. Then I rolled each of those into a ball. Cover the balls and let them rest for about 5 minutes. I had so much fun with this part. The dough was so smooth and elastic. I was REALLY impressed with my mixer and the ease of this recipe. Roll the balls into ropes, about 11 inches long, even all over. Overlap the ends of the rope about 1 1/2 inches and pinch the entire overlapped area firmly together. You might need to use water to get a better seal. Then put your fingers through the hole and roll the overlap under your fingers or palm several times to seal the seam. The ring should be roughly the same thickness all the way around. Put the rings onto an almond meal dusted cookie sheet. The recipe called for corn meal. I used almond meal for obvious reasons. You could probably just use flour, too. Then cover them tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate them overnight (12-18 hours). The Cooks Illustrated recipe has detailed pics of this process, and they helped a lot.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDas0kE4FqOF_5IuNSigFMCfcV1WALJ-qXPECVD2Szs7Ga-PyeY3_djqo0lLNe3rAEu2s11ylEfpELHXrhk_kKNpbfSwuHTRAxlHRhyJfsnR9uSULjLqCGnfG-0rJbXogn-hZdZtGp08/s640/blogger-image-1450489527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDas0kE4FqOF_5IuNSigFMCfcV1WALJ-qXPECVD2Szs7Ga-PyeY3_djqo0lLNe3rAEu2s11ylEfpELHXrhk_kKNpbfSwuHTRAxlHRhyJfsnR9uSULjLqCGnfG-0rJbXogn-hZdZtGp08/s640/blogger-image-1450489527.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not bad for my first try.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When you're ready to bake, make sure your oven rack is in the center position and preheat the oven to 450 degrees F. Fill a large soup pot (I used my dutch oven) with water. You'll need about 3 inch depth. Bring water to rapid boil. If you're not sure if the bagels have proofed yet, you can fill a bowl with cold water and drop a bagel in. If it's ready, it will float. If not, keep trying every several minutes until they're ready.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjl2tXrvAqb3W8thQBgWL4f0rTvxJ2ms0C31_G-ojNsUl6RjgxYLNddfWCBBylCRvxEJbXJf555bTy7k3Q3kTd_4Kjvfv_Jf8Il2VChYPs8IXjLWSzkVjUWnrqfHvEewpZGBSoVug8oo/s640/blogger-image--1403782933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjl2tXrvAqb3W8thQBgWL4f0rTvxJ2ms0C31_G-ojNsUl6RjgxYLNddfWCBBylCRvxEJbXJf555bTy7k3Q3kTd_4Kjvfv_Jf8Il2VChYPs8IXjLWSzkVjUWnrqfHvEewpZGBSoVug8oo/s640/blogger-image--1403782933.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All proofed and ready to boil.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
Once the water is boiling and the bagels have proofed, drop them in 4 at a time using a slotted spoon or strainer to push them down under the surface.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibHNxRUoyLXPEOtB5x00ucxqiV2iC_1BIuKRPj7Jd84w7ZENsUne27LP26H3vJHnuUF2mjVETAcsswAQseLaWBIxAeskiW3VmPMTDujNlZInQY3VcWyajRkaUQloMRR0qJRkrZPbn8Ci4/s640/blogger-image-693404960.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibHNxRUoyLXPEOtB5x00ucxqiV2iC_1BIuKRPj7Jd84w7ZENsUne27LP26H3vJHnuUF2mjVETAcsswAQseLaWBIxAeskiW3VmPMTDujNlZInQY3VcWyajRkaUQloMRR0qJRkrZPbn8Ci4/s640/blogger-image-693404960.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why this part scared me before I don't know. Super easy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
You should only have to boil them for 30-45 seconds, just until they're lightly puffed. Transfer them, bottom side down, to a wire baking rack over a towel to drain.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Vz8tU6EQ1DI3I3TER6EtgYA0FwD-q3RoXvv0lJ0x7uHWUySpU1U0NyQnApEjX7gqAdcO8P0KslZuMS0i4Xx_WdxODwjQxTiiGR3m0wYBRtd6TuZD-1YoB7M7A8FP5ZmKa9f62EnbeSg/s640/blogger-image--1753853277.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Vz8tU6EQ1DI3I3TER6EtgYA0FwD-q3RoXvv0lJ0x7uHWUySpU1U0NyQnApEjX7gqAdcO8P0KslZuMS0i4Xx_WdxODwjQxTiiGR3m0wYBRtd6TuZD-1YoB7M7A8FP5ZmKa9f62EnbeSg/s640/blogger-image--1753853277.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They looked deflated and wrinkly. I thought I had ruined them.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
Then transfer them, same side down, to a parchment lined baking sheet or stone. Bake until deep golden brown, about 14-16 minutes. Transfer to wire rack to cool, and enjoy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfHsqnZxV-hKUJAy3ORIGSQgPhrS6RPXAXgLpAZ3H1oM0tzQVYDQGfznGIQzs7UWkzStoU4GAx5oogXfOES_scry0uyvKetq_vWM2zZ91olN1gmbzSX4eXdbdognELaI_OXMMKeWCpaw/s640/blogger-image--2122163479.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfHsqnZxV-hKUJAy3ORIGSQgPhrS6RPXAXgLpAZ3H1oM0tzQVYDQGfznGIQzs7UWkzStoU4GAx5oogXfOES_scry0uyvKetq_vWM2zZ91olN1gmbzSX4eXdbdognELaI_OXMMKeWCpaw/s640/blogger-image--2122163479.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then they rose and filled out and turned out so beautiful and yummy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<br /><br />They smelled amazing, tasted amazing and the texture was bakery quality. Seriously, I don't know that I'll eat another store bought bagel again.<br /><br />This is what Jackson thought about them. He was SO excited, he didn't even balk when I asked him for a photo.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtBg-danWysV65nYx6mPfQ-O_AguKaBkiY2Rm4K5Dun-Arx_KLv6ux0x9XG7PsEkQZ5kR9ZA4HGk97YqF-KF82KdqUU7w7XTYz9dgLgScSNPbR03S94h9HeAhN5nk6-R9Cx0JLgiqaz4/s640/blogger-image-969479263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtBg-danWysV65nYx6mPfQ-O_AguKaBkiY2Rm4K5Dun-Arx_KLv6ux0x9XG7PsEkQZ5kR9ZA4HGk97YqF-KF82KdqUU7w7XTYz9dgLgScSNPbR03S94h9HeAhN5nk6-R9Cx0JLgiqaz4/s640/blogger-image-969479263.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't you just love his little cow lick on the side of his head.<br />
Some day he'll be embarrassed I took this photo.<br />
I'm embarrassed by the dirty oven door.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"></span></div>
Not at all as difficult as I thought they would be. Definitely not any more difficult than making my own <a href="http://feedingangels.blogspot.com/2012/09/pumpkin-spice-whole-wheat-pop-tarts.html">pop tarts</a> or <a href="http://feedingangels.blogspot.com/2013/01/cinnamon-rolls-whole-wheat-low-sugar.html">cinnamon rolls</a>. So, I think these will be another staple for us. Yay for something new!</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-6934309623542128262014-11-04T12:11:00.001-05:002014-11-04T12:12:03.224-05:00I'm Running Away<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5wnFCHWfaYkEypp3zS0Ejca-9qvZPTO0DHvoiwVsHvYshuytIsUMzGFcg8MTPYH7ooKNlhI-e5IjDQqI0wAAi4q77YPwZM7OeIRR4MWH7WpLXx0dm51DRn9ELUbAoivpL5qC4dZlgB7k/s1600/runningawaypic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5wnFCHWfaYkEypp3zS0Ejca-9qvZPTO0DHvoiwVsHvYshuytIsUMzGFcg8MTPYH7ooKNlhI-e5IjDQqI0wAAi4q77YPwZM7OeIRR4MWH7WpLXx0dm51DRn9ELUbAoivpL5qC4dZlgB7k/s1600/runningawaypic.jpg" height="234" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I want to participate in National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo), but I'm not really good at that kind of thing. So, I started another <a href="http://rachelisrunningaway.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">blog</a>. I've been writing a lot lately. Thing is, by the time I get it out and read back through it, I usually feel like it's either not worth publishing or not appropriate to publish.<br />
<br />
The three usual things I write about aren't working right now.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
1. I love Jesus, but anything I've written about my faith lately seems to come out preachy, fake or so controversial I would never live it down in my personal life. When God inspires me to write something that is actually worth reading and something I feel needs to be said no matter the personal consequences, I'll share.<br />
<br />
2. I love my kids and my family, but writing about them doesn't come easy. Our lives are pretty boring, like they're supposed to be. School, work, sports, dirty dishes, the usual stuff.<br />
<br />
3. I love food, and this blog was started partially around my son's allergy to corn. Thing is, I just don't experiment and cook like I used to. Besides the occasional post about kale from my mom's garden, I have nothing to share. And then there's running.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I love to run.<br />
I love to talk about running.<br />
I love to read about running.<br />
I love to write about running.<br />
I love running.<br />
I love buying and trying new running gear, especially running shoes.<br />
I love running medals.<br />
I love inspiring people to run.<br />
I love pushing fellow runners to go farther or faster.<br />
I think everyone should try it, but I don't recall ever picking on anyone for NOT running. Well, maybe except for my husband, but that's a topic for another day.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Running is hard, and it hurts when you first start out and whenever you push yourself out of your comfort zone. Its a constant learning process and your body revolts every now and then. It isn't for everyone, but it's definitely for me. And, many of my favorite people are runners. Actually, I've never met another runner I didn't like. There's an instant connection through this crazy obsession with running that trumps all other differences. Now, I haven't yet decided if it's the type of personality that enjoys running that makes the connection so easy or if it's the act of running that makes people more connectable. Either way, I think runners are just super cool people.<br />
<br />
So, I'm starting a new blog about running, and I'm going to try to do this whole blog every day thing with one topic I am clearly obsessed about.<br />
<br />
We'll see how it goes.</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-49042811752903044752014-10-14T11:29:00.000-04:002014-10-14T22:33:15.177-04:00I Love BooksIt's one of those rainy cool fall days here. The kind that is perfect for a fire, a window, a comfy chair, a hot beverage of some sort and a good book. I love books. It is such a beautiful thing how someone can weave together simple little words to create an alternate reality filled with fascinating characters, mystical objects, heroes and villains, far off lands and odd places. It's one of my favorite human talents. Authors might as well be super heroes to me. What they do is truly magical.<div>
<br>This fascination probably started when I was a child. My mom used to read to me and my brothers at bed time. I remember being ushered off to dreamland to the beautiful words of Tolkien, Bunyan and Lewis. I still have images in my head from each volume. Many of the characters are as real to me as actual people. The stories are like fond memories but more fantastic and adventurous. I love how something so simple and ordinary can transform into something so magical. She read. I listened. And, I'm still inspired today by many of those quiet moments spent curled up together.</div><div><br></div><div>I've read to my children since before they were born. Jacob heard the entire Bible between my first doctor's appointment and his first breath, all in my voice. Until he got "too big" for bed time, I read to him every night, often hearing him ask, "just one more." Sometimes he joins us now, and sometimes he doesn't, but Allie, Jackson and I try to read every night we're able.<br>
<br>When we're busy and I'm hurried at bedtime, I often wish I could just send the kids to bed and head up to tuck them in when I was ready. But, they beg to read. I just can't say no, especially when they hurry to get everything done so I have no reason to deny them.</div><div><br></div><div>Jackson asks me to "sit really close so he can hear my voice better." He and I are reading <i>Around the World in 80 Days</i> right now. Jacob thinks it's boring because there are no battle scenes or gross humor, and Allie can't believe there are no princesses. But, Jackson loves it. Jacob gets to pick the next book, perhaps we'll start <i>The Lord of the Rings</i>, and he'll come to read with us again.</div><div><br></div><div>The pages come to life for me, although for an entirely different reason these days. The light in their eyes when a train full of passengers jumps a canyon river or a woman is rescued from a burning funeral pyre and the wondering and calculation on their precious faces as the heroes race against the clock to reach home before their time expires, I love it.</div><div><br></div><div>I think it's a little like a workout. I often feel like I don't have time and wish I could just skip it, but I never regret it after. In a fast world made up more of quantity than quality, it's a rare, slow, magical m<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">oment with these sweet little people who won't be little much longer.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I hope they will one day look back and remember Hobbits and wizards, pilgrims and talking animals as if they were childhood playmates, and I hope they will carry on the tradition with their own children.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Someday, I'll curl up in my chair next to a fire with my chai and a book and read to myself. I'm sure there will still be magic, just not the same kind. That kind, hopefully, will be found at bedtime in my children's homes as they read to their own little ones. Maybe they'll let me join in on occasion and share in the magic, and maybe they'll read to me when my eyes grow too dim to make out the words. I hope so. I love books.</span></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-81108392116778033962014-09-22T14:23:00.001-04:002014-09-22T14:29:53.353-04:00Pumpkin Pie Smoothie<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6Uc_rDAdvpLVBfzrhkRnQEgWz-FHotci_Dd6H29ksg4eSti59Jx90ETc4YZ_Xjl-Tkup1mXZKQ1Kp_ZqhKdvd5Yp4z9jTzA73KAYSH9d5WTpdV_b3fLY2aBRU7kAVsbvXzIsAQwmTfY/s640/blogger-image-1948301404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6Uc_rDAdvpLVBfzrhkRnQEgWz-FHotci_Dd6H29ksg4eSti59Jx90ETc4YZ_Xjl-Tkup1mXZKQ1Kp_ZqhKdvd5Yp4z9jTzA73KAYSH9d5WTpdV_b3fLY2aBRU7kAVsbvXzIsAQwmTfY/s640/blogger-image-1948301404.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So, I'm meeting myself coming and going these days, but I HAD to share this recipe! To celebrate Fall and all things pumpkin, I made a Pumpkin Pie Smoothie for lunch today, and it did not disappoint.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">1 Cup Plain Kefir</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">1/2 Cup Pumpkin Purée</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">1/2 Banana, frozen</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">1 Tbsp Pecans (I mash mine before I put them in)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">2 Tbsp Sweetened Condensed Milk</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">1/2 tsp Vanilla Extract</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">1/4 tsp Cinnamon</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Mix it and blend it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This fits perfectly in my single serve blender cup.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I used this as a post workout, meal replacement smoothie. It's approximately 410 calories with about 20 grams of protein. Using the sweetened condensed milk adds 22 grams of sugar. I'm sure I could lighten this up if I wanted to, just by replacing that with something lower in sugar, but like I said, this was post workout and lunch for me. And, I'm not eating pumpkin without a sweetener. :-)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">For the pumpkin, I used canned purée, (not the pie filling, just the pumpkin), and I froze it in mini muffin tins so I had little blocks for the smoothie machine. You could do the same with ice cube trays. If you've ever made your own baby food, you know all about this technique. You'll use about 4-5 cubes per smoothie. I'm planning to try a sweet potato version of this, and I'll cook and mash them myself. Pumpkins are tough, and the canned stuff is just easy. I'm all about easy. Also, I freeze my bananas in halves so I have them for smoothies, and they help make it nice and thick.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">If you like pumpkin, I think you'll like this smoothie.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Happy Fall, Y'all!</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-2370035301913983652014-08-15T18:51:00.001-04:002014-09-03T19:34:26.597-04:00Naked in PublicI'm in the gym of one of my kids' schools working a table at open house with several other moms. This open house isn't like the usual ones at the beginning of the year. It's busier, and there's food and tables and lots of parents and kids eating and talking. It's more like the Thanksgiving feast than the beginning of the year open house, except everyone is in shorts and flip flops. Well, everyone but me, that is. Handing out some pertinent information on a sheet of paper I hadn't read, I look down and notice, I'm not wearing any clothes. Buck naked in the gym of a Christian, homeschool hybrid academy, I panic and run to the restroom, somehow scoring an outfit. I return to my post, only, I'm naked again. This happens several times before I wake very thankful it was only a dream.<br>
<br>
It's probably 3am. I don't know because the clock numbers are too small and too far away for me to see them from my bed, and I don't want to check my phone. I'm just guessing since that's my usual 'wake up and have trouble going back to sleep' time. I lay there for a minute and wonder what it meant.<br>
<br>
I've heard that dreaming you're naked in public means you don't feel like you know what you're doing, and you're afraid everyone is going to find out. Or, you're hiding something and fear what would happen if everyone knew. Afraid of being exposed = being naked in public. Makes sense, right?<br>
<br>
I am now the mother of three elementary school age children. No more babies in this house. I don't know that I really miss those harried, messy days. (I know. What mother actually says that out loud? Answer: this one.) However, I do think they came more naturally to me than the stage we're in right now. All you have to do for a two year old is feed him, change him, snuggle him, and keep him busy. Basically, just keep him alive and smiling. Mommy is always the hero even when there is a wet diaper hanging from the ceiling fan and they've lost their toy soldier in the toilet. Of course, you might make them mad when you enforce boundaries, but they get over it pretty quick and go back to thinking you hung the moon. And, they sleep! A lot. So, that's awesome!<br>
<br>
Older kids, though. See, they have projects and papers that make you miss the fat crayon coloring pages and magnetic letters on the fridge. They have their own opinions, and tend to voice them with an attitude that makes you wonder if you're failing as a parent. Definitely not like the sweet little broken sentences of a three year old. They have activities and relationships all their own. Mommy is no longer the playmate of choice, just an acceptable alternative when all other options have been exhausted. What am I gonna do with all those cardboard blocks and train tracks?<br>
<br>
That's not really all of it, though, because I'm adapting ok to that. I've always been better with older kids anyway. I, more often than not, look forward to the growing and changing of my kids. I love seeing their personality and individuality develop, and the fact that they can do the whole toilet thing all by themselves, THAT IS AWESOME!<br>
<br>
The problem? I think the reason I'm dreaming of being naked in public is that I will now be the home teacher for two of my children, and my older son will soon be beyond my level of expertise. He's in 4th grade. Pretty soon, I won't be able to correct his homework without an answer key. Actually, that's already happened. I have a graduate level education, and I struggled with some of the concepts he brought home in 3rd grade math. Seriously. I don't think I could make it on that Jeff Foxworthy game show, <i>Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader</i>. My 4th grader can hold his own, though.<br>
<br>
Serious props to all you teachers out there! I'm pretty sure I got what I needed from school, used it to build a foundation for college and completely wiped the rest from my mind. Actually, I think having three children had a lot to do with the emptying of my brain. Maybe years of Dora, Bob and Mickey had a little to do with it, too.<br>
<br>
Is he ready for this? Am I ready? Will I completely ruin his chances of college because I can't explain the difference between a ray and a line? Is there a difference? What am I doing?<br>
<br>
Then there is my beautiful, vibrant, funny, super smart Kindergartner who is already telling me how to teach her, and we haven't even finished a whole month yet. Between fearing the complete destruction of my 4th grader's education and dreading the arguments I anticipate with my Kindergartner, I think that's enough to trigger a silly dream. Don't you?<br>
<br>
I googled it 'cause Google knows everything, and found a suggestion, to pay attention to what the other people were doing in my dream, how they reacted to my lack of clothing. After thinking about it, I had to literally laugh out loud.<br>
<br>
The moms working the table with me were politely annoyed, but it was at my hesitancy and continuous absences, not my state of dress. One very special woman, whom I love and will not name right now, actually told me to get my head in the game, reminded me that I've got this, and told me to stop checking out. Other moms coming to the table were all smiles and thank you's. Actually, the only people who noticed were a couple of dads shaking their heads from a distant table.<br>
<br>
Solidarity, Ladies! I must be surrounded by the best bunch of moms on the planet, or at least I truly, honestly feel supported and loved by y'all even though I don't feel adequate.<div><br></div><div>And, that's just it. None of us have all the answers. Most of us are just trying to get our children to adulthood alive. If they become productive, responsible and independent while still breathing, we should get a bonus. If we raise them to love the Lord and follow him when they don't know what they're doing, then we have succeeded, and I think that might be the point of all this.<br>
<br>
I do NOT know what I'm doing, but I know someone who does. Not knowing what you're doing isn't a sin. It's human, and leaning on Jesus when I'm lost is so much more important a lesson than the difference between a line and a ray. Of course, my 4th grader still needs to know all that because the kid wants to be a mechanical engineer (God, help me, I'm an artist), but if he can't seek help and learn from the Master, then he'll fail in the bigger things, the things you can't take back.<br>
<br>
So, I'm exposing myself, and hopefully, I can encourage a mom or two out there wondering if they've got what it takes to be the mom their kids need. Yes, you do. God gave you those babies and everything you need to get them to the jumping off point, that place where they fly away to the lives they were meant to live. Don't hesitate and freeze. Don't check out and disappear. Get your head in the game. You've got this.<br></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-16877741540351000322014-08-08T12:29:00.000-04:002014-08-08T12:31:10.420-04:00Well Cared ForI wrote a post about <a href="http://www.feedingangels.blogspot.com/2013/11/my-scrawny-spirit.html" target="_blank">My Scrawny Spirit</a>, and then did a <a href="http://www.feedingangels.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-30-day-challenges-for-spiritual.html" target="_blank">30 Day Spiritual Challenge</a> (which I completed, but realized it needs to be revised some because it was harder than I thought it would be). I've been thinking I would like to have an image to pin. So, I threw something together today, and wanted to post it so I could pin it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieGOgQjZAYwuXidtYysXVpv6i_SyhgSXyAgRzaR6SaGeAlt-x2crN0Gh0T4OoZfhATDPLvgKLLYsA3SUpgvTVCF5hX1DVxPNtTDZm37Uq8K13lYdbBnulRA-3vXIN6LZQ1LS4iNx4dnrs/s1600/WellBuilt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieGOgQjZAYwuXidtYysXVpv6i_SyhgSXyAgRzaR6SaGeAlt-x2crN0Gh0T4OoZfhATDPLvgKLLYsA3SUpgvTVCF5hX1DVxPNtTDZm37Uq8K13lYdbBnulRA-3vXIN6LZQ1LS4iNx4dnrs/s1600/WellBuilt.jpg" height="490" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhwqKhyphenhyphenvYlnI4INk_z6pL9rWTX9n0eoSwnBvgRxr3geqnLmAUCIrQt-Hu5YZ4z4BJc7XekubZKlmoN1uk1eF-xzKVbcrPLn5u-pAIChRYfQA3NLJjmguRnUn-snEMgRMNbKNOXW0YSIw/s1600/WellCared.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhwqKhyphenhyphenvYlnI4INk_z6pL9rWTX9n0eoSwnBvgRxr3geqnLmAUCIrQt-Hu5YZ4z4BJc7XekubZKlmoN1uk1eF-xzKVbcrPLn5u-pAIChRYfQA3NLJjmguRnUn-snEMgRMNbKNOXW0YSIw/s1600/WellCared.jpg" height="494" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Now imagine what you could accomplish if you put the two together.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-33689057062118093142014-06-07T10:38:00.004-04:002014-06-07T10:38:48.525-04:00Apparently, I Can't StreakI started the Runner's World Run Streak #RWrunstreak on Memorial Day. I've run at least a mile every day since, and I plan to continue running until July 4th at the Peachtree Road Race. My legs feel stronger than they ever have, and I really enjoy the challenge. Maybe I'll keep going. Maybe I'll streak for a year. Maybe I shouldn't get too far ahead of myself.<br />
<br />
Anyway, whenever I feel the need to plan and conquer something, I develop an overambitious, challenge hungry mentality. Pretty much "I'm gonna do this and that and maybe this and oooo, that too." Then I take on more than I can handle and fall flat on my face. When I fall flat on my face I switch from "I can conquer anything" to "I suck and will never accomplish anything, I may as well just crawl in bed and never come out."<br />
<br />
Yeah, so after my run streak started off so well, I decided to blog every day I was streaking. I even thought I would start a new blog all about running because I have so much to say about it that it might be cool if the whole purpose of the blog was talking about running (forgetting that you need to have something to say that people actually want to read, or you should at least try to). Then the process got out of hand, and I just decided I would post something on my current blog every day. Then I didn't. Yesterday was kind of a blur. I got my run in, but the blog post was forgotten.<br />
<br />
So, this morning I wake up and say to myself, "awwww, I was only like 4 posts in. Apparently, I can't streak." Then I decided that I would turn this glitch into a post, and attempt to salvage my streak rather than completely give up and make it another epic fail.<br />
<br />
This is me trying to accept failure as part of the process. I'm trying not to crawl back into bed and say forget it all. I missed 1 day. Maybe I can still make it the rest of the way. Although, most of me is still thinking, "you stink at this and should just stop."<br />
<br />
Well, I might stink at it, but I'm not going to stop. On to another day, and maybe another post. :-)Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-56166704466141501742014-06-05T17:21:00.001-04:002014-06-05T17:21:38.831-04:00The Integrity of the DressLast night at my son's baseball game, I was talking to another mom.<br />
<br />
Pause for a second for me to share one of my favorite things about baseball, adult conversation. Most games, I try to pay attention to the game as much as I can, but part of enjoying the game is enjoying the ball park and the families that are right there along side you. Plus, this season, we've had such a great group of boys and families, that I'm really sad to see it end. Anyway....<br />
<br />
I was talking to another mom at the game last night and she mentioned that she and her daughter dress up together for fun and play (go ahead and say it, awwwwww), and she will put on her wedding dress when they do. Wait. What? My first thought when she said that was, "you can still wear your wedding dress?" I completely forgot about how sweet it is that she plays dress up with her daughter and could only focus on one thing. She can still wear her wedding dress. I'm 35 pounds heavier than I was when I got married almost twelve years ago, and I run marathons (ok, one marathon, but I'm doing more soon). I kept thinking I probably couldn't even get it over my head, for sure not my hips, and there's NO way I could fasten it. The game went on, and we talked about other things. Did I mention how much I really enjoy talking to other moms at the baseball field. Yeah, anyway, I kept thinking about the fact that she can still wear her wedding dress. For real, I kept thinking about it. I couldn't get it out of my head. So, you know what I did? This morning after I got back from my run and got done showering, washing off the sweat left after the rain, [I always feel so hardcore when I run in the rain. Even though it was really just a drizzle, my shoes were wet and squishy when we got done, and that made me feel even more hardcore. Back to the dress thing...] I decided to put mine on. Everyone else was still asleep, so no one would see me, and I HAD to know if I could fit in it. I probably should have just allowed myself to wonder.<br />
<br />
Here's how this whole thing went down. I couldn't get it over my shoulders. Not really sure why that is. My bone structure hasn't changed, at least not up there. I guess since I had zero body fat back then, getting it over my hips wasn't an issue. I probably never tried to put it on over my head. It's a strapless dress. So, I'm pretty sure I stepped into it the four times I wore it, once at the bridal store, twice for the fittings and once on my wedding day. Here's the thing, though, I'm almost positive I gained all 35 pounds in my hips and thighs. Stepping into dresses no longer happens for me, but with a little wiggle, I did it. I got it over my hips and almost squealed! Shhh. Don't wake the kids. Then all those darn buttons, and the zipper. Yeah, NONE of that was happening. My rib cage has grown. No for real. I'm not trying to say that when I should really say I've gained weight. It really has. That happens when you have kids, right? They stretch out your rib cage. Seems like I read that somewhere. Anyway, it really has. I sucked in like an inverted tornado and got the first part of the thing fastened around my waist, but once I got to my ribs, it became clear, I was NOT fitting into my wedding dress. It was actually ok, and I had a really good laugh at myself, sat on the floor, and took a selfie. I'm Gen Y, of course I took a selfie.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2eve-Bm51w9R-KUOfpMAf8IzMrGzIyohPl6vvw7JyRtUBYYhRzOuDUlvbY1jWXzPoATzqT2lrWSpTpS1bxRo5bpX2xJYsf7U7kWpqtqUeFgPQXNO9zB8JZXysdaMSB8HMuJgU1AE7Vw/s1600/dressselfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2eve-Bm51w9R-KUOfpMAf8IzMrGzIyohPl6vvw7JyRtUBYYhRzOuDUlvbY1jWXzPoATzqT2lrWSpTpS1bxRo5bpX2xJYsf7U7kWpqtqUeFgPQXNO9zB8JZXysdaMSB8HMuJgU1AE7Vw/s1600/dressselfie.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm not good at selfies.<br />I'm even worse at all the filters and junk.<br />Which is sad since I'm a graphic designer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In the process of all this craziness, thinking about how much bigger I am now in nearly every way but one, I remembered something the woman told me during my first fitting. There are two cup sizes of padding in the chest of that dress. Two cup sizes. Why? Well, there was only so much she could take in due to the way the dress was made. All the beading and detail made it hard for her to do too much with it. She told me, "too much alteration would ruin the integrity of the dress." Apparently all super skinny women wearing a size 2 wedding dress have giant Barbie chests, right? Sounds like the integrity of the designer should be questioned, or maybe I should have just found a different dress. It was so pretty, though. Anyway, that was ages ago, and it's not important now.<br />
<br />
Things got deep sitting on the floor of my closet which also happens to be my favorite place to pray.<br />
<br />
I got to thinking about what else has changed about me since that day nearly twelve years ago. Honestly, besides the things that usually come with marriage like kids and bills and stress and the effects of long term sleep deprivation, not much. At my core, I'm still me. Still got all the goofy awkwardness I was born with. It's just packaged a little differently now. What has changed, though, is my desire to fit a mold I wasn't designed to fit. The standard must retain it's integrity. It can not be altered, or it ceases to be. I tried to fit. Pushed and squeezed and worked SO hard, ignoring the pain and the obvious signs that I would never make it happen. The more I squeezed, the more brokenness and imperfection I found. At one point or another, I couldn't deny my failure anymore. I don't handle failure well. It isn't natural for me to let broken things BE broken. It isn't natural for me to just let things be, to let me be me. I have to fix it. Make it right. I have to be the good girl, the good mom, the good wife, the <i>best</i> me, or at least I did. When I figured out that wasn't gonna happen, I kind of slipped into a private rebellion. If I can't be <i>that</i> girl, then I'll be <i>this</i> one. No wild partying or open rebellion, no abandonment of my family, just giving up and trying not to care. You know what changed? My desire to fit that mold, and when I realized that mold wasn't for me, a revelation of another kind came to me.<br />
<br />
There is no mold.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEt2TdZh0WM2hWY2-aAkfAgg6uQfu1VVnE02gaTo1H5ZwDKaJTJkAxlVDZflO0gbKBXbd02cY3PSIswSUTEShxjvAD6j9_990wmieGazjdu6tkBvjJyoZVGtpDSlJ_K5tFaY3Dr93v5aQ/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEt2TdZh0WM2hWY2-aAkfAgg6uQfu1VVnE02gaTo1H5ZwDKaJTJkAxlVDZflO0gbKBXbd02cY3PSIswSUTEShxjvAD6j9_990wmieGazjdu6tkBvjJyoZVGtpDSlJ_K5tFaY3Dr93v5aQ/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm sorry. I couldn't help it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I spent many wonderful childhood summer days forming little pots and figures out of the beautiful blue clay we had at our creek. I also took a sculpting class in college where we used a special rubber material to make molds of our originals so we could make copies out of resin. To make a mold, you must first have an original. The mold never comes first. See, there is no mold for me to fit into because I am the original sculpture, carved and formed by the hands of God. Now, he's not done yet. There is still a lot of work to do, but forcing me into a mold made by someone else isn't part of the plan. I was never meant to be a copy. He doesn't make copies, and his plan involves molding me into the image of his Son, sometimes with his hands, sometimes carving with tools and sometimes cutting away the excess. When he's done, though, when I stand complete, I'll be the <i>best</i> me, the me he meant me to be, more perfect than the image of the mold I wanted so much to fit myself into.<br />
<br />
I get impatient very often. I struggle with no longer having that vision of perfection, that standard to live up to, but I like not trying so hard. I like feeling like I'm already enough. I like knowing all the molding is up to my Savior. I like letting the broken be broken, and knowing that healing will come. Maybe not now, but before God puts his signature on his creation and calls it good, healing will come. I will be whole. Someday.<br />
<br />
The trick today is being ok with a dirty kitchen and laundry overflowing the room it should be confined to. I've enjoyed the day with my kids, though, and I've enjoyed writing. Here's to someday and the awe I know I'll feel when I see my Creator's handiwork complete and whole from the inside out.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-57669877273361843552014-06-04T10:58:00.000-04:002014-06-04T10:58:27.850-04:00The Accomplished List<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7aeFDdtIl-chE_KlCCw2KUF-n66sRJOMyTh9TEAbWX2UgizQ694gOaFIeI_jf_OV3rAj24_26YS93Z9PdK0qWC0LrBb2eXjezlIBYTmuK4FLFRrwE1iphZEBALvmcion29T0Oc9OjOWc/s1600/shutterstock_151886921.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7aeFDdtIl-chE_KlCCw2KUF-n66sRJOMyTh9TEAbWX2UgizQ694gOaFIeI_jf_OV3rAj24_26YS93Z9PdK0qWC0LrBb2eXjezlIBYTmuK4FLFRrwE1iphZEBALvmcion29T0Oc9OjOWc/s1600/shutterstock_151886921.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This isn't me or my kitchen.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's 8:30ish in the morning here. I've already run 4.5 miles, fed my kids breakfast, and mopped up a gigantic disgusting mess in the garage. Don't ask. It's just not share worthy. I am now sitting at my computer with my homemade latte that tastes nothing like the Starbucks latte I love so much trying to get a blogging streak going to match my running streak, 10 consecutive days and about 30 miles. How cool is that? AND, I'm typing stuff on my blog, the third post in two days. I feel so accomplished right now, I'm going to revel in it since this is probably the most I'll get done all day. Ask me what I've accomplished again at about 8:30 tonight, and I'll more than likely have the same list having only added "kept the kids alive" and "managed not to run away."<br />
<br />
Oh, wait, we have baseball tonight. The list grows on baseball nights. So, tonight if you asked me what I accomplished I will probably say that I got two unwilling spectators ready to watch their brother play baseball. I packed a bag with a bazillion tricks and snacks to keep said unwilling spectators happy at the game. Then repacked the bag after a five year old in a panic to find the ONE toy she MUST have for the game or she just CAN'T survive dumps it all over the floor. I can say I fought over the reasons why sparkly princess shoes are not the kind of thing you wear to the ball park, and searched the house top to bottom for the socks I JUST handed my eight year old and decided to just get him fresh socks that may or may not match because at this point we're so late it just doesn't matter. (We'll probably find them as soon as we get home. Like yesterday we found them on his bathroom counter next to his tooth brush.). I will have traveled to the game, probably arriving late due to toy and sock issues, and I will arrive with a nagging headache having listened to the Frozen soundtrack AGAIN, and also having listened to my eight year old son beg me to never play those songs again, EVER, "plllleeeeeeeease!" I will more than likely have fed them something from a drive through as we are traveling to the game because in all the chaos of getting to the game, cooking is just not an option, even in the summer. Then I will probably have resolved to never feed my children fast food again hearing my eight year old, Jackson, the one with the food allergies and autism, ask me when I'm going to cook again, "I love when you cook, and I miss your yummy food." I will have gone through a dozen healthy snacks offering each one to my children who just ate fast food eventually caving in to the lure of the concession stand. AND, I will have attempted to have adult conversation with the other baseball moms while watching said unwilling spectators and also paying attention to my super star BJ Upton/Freddie Freeman/Mike Minor combo kid (I'm not biased or anything) play the game he loves so much so that when he asks me later, "did you see that, Mom. Did you see that?" I can reply, "yes, baby and it was awesome!"<br />
<br />
So, tonight when I say, "I managed to keep the kids alive and not run away." It will mean so much more than say, yesterday when the most I accomplished was dishes, grocery shopping and boxed pizza for dinner (it was Kashi and Amy's organic). Now, grocery shopping WITH my kids is kind of like attempting to climb Mount Everest in a bikini. Ok. I'll take that back so I don't offend those super fit, crazy people who have actually accomplished that nearly inhuman feat — the climbing Mount Everest thing not the bikini thing, 'cause that would just be dumb. Grocery shopping WITH my kids is more like running a half marathon on a trail on hills that feel like you're climbing a mountain in 80 degrees and 80% humidity with the sun glaring through every opening in the canopy above knowing your super fast friend you've been chasing your whole running life is probably up ahead singing her way through the race and crossing the finish with a PR. That will be on my list of accomplishments for next Saturday, should I survive, anyway.<br />
<br />
If I don't, then you can say, I died doing something I love trying to be better than the woman I was yesterday. If I do survive, though, you should probably know that I'm really just running this race because there are some awesome women running it that asked if I would join them. I like running for me, but I like running for others more. Well, that and it will help me keep my running streak alive, AND I have ten pounds I gained training for that darn marathon I need to get rid of. Plus, my daughter is super proud of me when I get home from a race. I want to inspire her to do things that are uncomfortable and difficult, to push herself outside the box so she has a nice fat mental file of accomplishments to draw on when she's facing a mountain she doesn't know if she can climb. And, running is awesome. It just is.<br />
<br />
So, now I'm going to go clean my house, make sure a certain uniform is clean, and attempt to prepare ahead of time so maybe I can be on time and forego some of those 'issues' I listed in the second paragraph. Then maybe I can add "finished the day with low stress and fell asleep quickly without any worry over the permanent damage I've caused my children with my overwhelmed craziness." We'll see. It's still early.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-45960415073336977822014-06-03T20:41:00.000-04:002014-06-03T20:41:37.655-04:00Losing my Spoons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIOlP5gpBix8pCNI9Sm-NNL5HR6phH0cK6OzfJZIKsafwO8l6aEcjkLdE3-19kxWQf66IKeZRgKWiwcy89fpv_yNfLeQXk5vmlO17_W0wCBG4SQUC9XGJHfwzXrfzpJemHOxa-uYTeWgo/s1600/shutterstock_158034737.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIOlP5gpBix8pCNI9Sm-NNL5HR6phH0cK6OzfJZIKsafwO8l6aEcjkLdE3-19kxWQf66IKeZRgKWiwcy89fpv_yNfLeQXk5vmlO17_W0wCBG4SQUC9XGJHfwzXrfzpJemHOxa-uYTeWgo/s1600/shutterstock_158034737.jpg" height="320" width="194" /></a></div>
<br />
So, it's been a while since I've blogged. Life is hard these days. I keep looking forward to the next stage of development like it will bring with it more freedom for both me and the kids, but with each new season, I'm finding the job doesn't really get easier or less time consuming. It's just different. There are so many things you don't think about with new life stages, even when you have older ones that have gone through it before. My oldest is neurotypical. My middle is autistic, and my youngest is a girl. They don't do <i>anything</i> alike. It's all new. Every day.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I could write a book about the differences and how I'm always being caught off guard and off my game, but that would take time. That's not a luxury I have these days. There's something else missing in my house, though, something I'm a little more curious about at the moment. Over twelve years of marriage, five places of residence, three kids and a bazillion changes in our lives, I have lost my spoons. You know, the things you eat soup and stir your latte with, I've lost them. ALL of them. I know you're probably thinking, "how do you lose something like that and not notice the loss sooner?" It's a terrible thing really. I'm a little afraid of the green police arresting me after I publish this post, but here goes. I...I have an addiction to disposable silverware, and plates and cups and bowls. I know. It's terrible, but it has made my life so much easier. Do you know how many dishes a family of five goes through in the course of a day? I do. About three dish washer loads, and that's on normal days, not the days I bake or cook something complicated. Those days, it's worse, and I can't handle the overload. I know I'm filling up our landfills and poisoning the planet, but I can't spend my days washing dishes, the same dishes, over and over and over. I just can't. I buy organic, try to cook dinner at home as much as my schedule allows, and I recycle EVERYTHING I can, but I can't give up my disposables. I just can't. Can you hear the panic in my voice? Please don't judge me. I need them, and I'll quit as soon as this whole mommy things gets easier and I have time for extra dishes. Promise. ;-) Anyway, back to the spoon thing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, when you use disposable silverware, and you run out before getting more, there's a gap. That's when you go to the drawer looking for the real stuff and after the first load of dishes when you have no room for all the silverware in your dishwasher's silverware basket, resolve to buy disposable again as soon as possible. I think I may have noticed the depletion happening a while ago, when there seemed to be fewer spoons than there should be, fewer in the drawer and fewer in the dishwasher, but in all the chaos that is my life, it got put on the back burner. You know, <i>that</i> burner, the one in the back, yeah, it rarely gets lit. Most things sit there for ages, often forever. It's kind of a graveyard, really. Anyway, this last 'gap' we went through, there were none. NONE. Well, there were baby spoons that I can't really explain still having since my youngest is five. That morning, I ate my whole wheat cereal with a purple baby spoon. It took me twice as long as it usually does, and I made a bigger mess. My daughter who usually chooses those adorable leftovers from her childhood whenever she has a chance, even said, "Mom, I need a real spoon. Where did they go?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Where <i>did</i> they go? Seriously. I want to know. Have my sock gremlins gotten bored and switched to stealing spoons? Are they building little spoon/sock forts with all their lifted merchandise? What about the forks? Why not the forks? Is there something wrong with them? Are they too sharp and dangerous? Are they rude and divisive? Come to think of it, I'm missing a lot of butter knives, too. They're sharp, kind of. Maybe the dish didn't run away with the spoon. Maybe the knife did. Maybe the knife stole the spoon away from the dish. Gasp! What kind of babies do knives and spoons make? What kind of question was that? I spend too much time with children under ten. I could continue to speculate and cause real concern over the loss of more than my spoons, but I'll cut this short.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't know what happened to all my spoons, but I do know that I must do something about it. I might choose to use disposable, but what kind of mother expects her children to eat their cereal with baby spoons during a 'gap'? Not this one. So, I am planning to go buy eight to twelve place settings of silverware, <i>real</i> silverware. This will be the first time since I registered for my wedding that I've even gone into that part of the store. This could be dangerous. I will NOT be taking my kids, and I might remember how much I like pretty <i>real</i> silverware and get lost in visions of dinner parties and entertaining. It might be enough to break me of my disposable silverware addiction, or maybe not. Just typing those sentences sent me off into nostalgic memories of picking out dishes and silverware and dreaming of my new life with my fiancé. Oh, to be young again. Do you ever think about what you would tell your younger self about your future life? I was just thinking that if I could go back, I would warn my younger self that sock gremlins eventually turn into spoon-nappers, and action must be taken to prevent the theft. So, if you come over and find a trap set in the silverware drawer, I'm sorry. It's not for you. It's for the gremlins.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We're talking about the loss of innocent spoons, and maybe a little more of my mind than I'm currently equipped to function without. But, see that's not a mystery. I know <i>exactly</i> where that went. My children took it! And, one day, I get to sit back and watch as my grandchildren take theirs. I imagine it will be very fulfilling, just like I imagine that life will be easier in the next stage of their development. Only, will I have enough of my mind left to take pleasure in what I see? I don't know. Such are the mysteries of life. The loss of my spoons and my mind.</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-18770186097956961792014-06-03T17:51:00.001-04:002014-06-03T19:29:11.238-04:00If You Take a Five Year Old to the Grocery Store...<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnQRtIRPcExeupUemKkQxGM6ShC1etQ2KpYHJCGJaUnTcvBXIT7Ea9Lmb7fVHtALohIkARvjUe6Uo9SgcRXebPPPqqJvrgt0OnlEYkYfEMKzzuXfcBWk7akRIQ0o5Cy7bN0NCR9uCT0Ag/s640/blogger-image-2070591549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnQRtIRPcExeupUemKkQxGM6ShC1etQ2KpYHJCGJaUnTcvBXIT7Ea9Lmb7fVHtALohIkARvjUe6Uo9SgcRXebPPPqqJvrgt0OnlEYkYfEMKzzuXfcBWk7akRIQ0o5Cy7bN0NCR9uCT0Ag/s640/blogger-image-2070591549.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
If you take a five year old to the grocery store, she may fight you about what to wear, and if she fights you about what to wear, you might compromise and let her do her own hair and pick out her own shoes. If she does her own hair and picks out her own shoes, she might go to the store looking like her hair has never seen a brush and her shoes might not match.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Even though her shoes don't match and her hair is a mess, she'll probably walk into the store like she owns the place and twirl and dance like she's covered in gold and diamonds, and if she twirls and dances like she's covered in gold and diamonds, she might realize she has to potty just after you've put a few things in the cart.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
If she realizes she has to potty after you've put a few things in the cart, you might get frustrated and ask why she didn't go before leaving the house, and if you ask her why she didn't go before leaving the house, she'll probably reply that she didn't have to go then. Since she didn't have to go then, she has to go NOW, and since she has to go NOW, you have two options. 1. To leave the cart of groceries, take her to the bathroom and start over, or 2. Push the cart to the door of the restroom, stand by the door with your 8 year old and send your 9 year old in to make sure she is safe.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
If you choose to send your 9 year old in with her, you might have visions of childhood scars and therapy visits he might need as an adult to get over the terrible things you made him do when he was 9. If you start having visions of childhood scars and therapy visits for your child, you will probably finish your shopping trip with Mommy guilt, and if you are finishing your shopping trip with mommy guilt, you will likely end up with an overloaded cart and a larger bill at the register. But, first you have to finish your shopping trip.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
As you attempt to finish your shopping trip in a store extra crowded with all the families home for summer, your younger son with autism will probably say something inappropriate loud enough for the next isles over to hear clearly, and if your younger son says something inappropriate loud enough for other isles to hear, your older son will probably get tickled and/or embarrassed for him and try to fix the problem but only make it worse. If your older son makes it worse, you'll probably be even more embarrassed and forget what you were even on that isle for anyway, and if you can't remember why you were on that isle you will probably have to go back to it after you think you are finished.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
If you have to revisit isles you will probably get overwhelmed and forget a lot, and if you forget a lot, you'll have to go back the next day. If you have to go back the next day, you'll probably have to take your five year old with you, and if you take your five year old with you, she'll probably fight you over what to wear. If she fights you over what to wear, you'll probably just let her wear whatever she wants even if it's pajamas or a princess costume complete with "glass" slippers.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Happy Summer! Is it Fall yet?</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-55199810730963987322014-01-11T17:25:00.001-05:002014-01-11T17:25:46.333-05:00The Gospel and Autism[[ I typed this post about a year ago after Jackson (then 6 years old) told me emphatically he didn't want God in his life, but decided not to publish the intensely personal and controversial struggle. I'm still worried about it being clear, but something happened today that made me feel like I should share. ]]<br />
<br />
Have you ever tried Googling that phrase, the Gospel and autism? You get more useful hits using faith or religion and autism, but I'm often searching for tidbits and info on the things most heavily weighing on my heart. So, I Googled that phrase recently, and found something that struck a nerve.<br />
<br />
Before Jackson's diagnosis I thought you didn't have to teach a child to lie, and you didn't have to explain God for them to believe. They just do on both counts. Well, not necessarily. While the self-preservation instinct that causes a child to lie is evident in Jackson in other ways, he didn't figure out lying for a long time, and I don't know when he would have without having learned from his brother and other typically developing kids. He has a big imagination, especially when it comes to super heroes and the tooth fairy, but he seems to struggle more with spiritual things. The way you typically talk to a child about God just doesn't work for him. I think I mentioned before how he reacted to the Sunday School talk about asking Jesus into his heart. It was a traumatic thought for him, asking this invisible God who created all things and was bigger than the universe to enter his little heart. In his mind, this would be painful and might result in an explosion.<br />
<br />
Needless to say the communication barrier and the literal, fact based way Jackson thinks has been a serious curve ball for me. During one conversation in which I was trying to answer one of his questions by explaining what it means for Jesus to be IN you and you to be IN Him (and obviously failing at it), Jackson looked at me plain as day and said, "I don't think I want that. Nope. I don't want God." Now, you know why I'm Googling things like 'the Gospel and autism.' It broke my heart, the tears started welling up, and I had to leave the room.<br />
<br />
Now let's pause for a moment and examine the tears. I accepted Christ when I was six years old. I can't remember a moment in my childhood where He wasn't present and active in my life. There were moments when I could literally feel His presence surrounding me. I had a little hill overlooking a cattle pasture that was my praying spot. I used to go there, lie on the ground, watch the clouds and the trees and talk to Him like He was right there next to me. I've read through the Bible several times, and each time is new and amazing. My faith is not a religion for me. It's a relationship. Now I've struggled and doubted. Done many things I wish I could take back, at times exhibiting anything but devotion to this God. I've gone through times when my faith was shaken and purged, but in the end (and hopefully TO the end) it only came out stronger. My God is not some distant figure I hear about at church, read about in an ancient book and struggle to please hoping for heaven when I die. He's my father, my brother, my husband, my friend....my everything. I cannot imagine my life without my God, and I look forward to the day I get to see His face, hold His hand and hear His voice. It's a big deal, and I want that for my children.<br />
<br />
Wanting that same relationship with God for my children, my heart has obviously been heavy since Jackson's statement. My husband has reminded me that he's only 6 (almost 7), and it's not time to panic yet. But, my heart is heavy all the same. I kept praying, "God, he can do without many things, but he can't do without You." Oh, the restless heart of a mother. Back to Googling the Gospel and autism.<br />
<br />
In my search, I landed on an autism forum where someone asked how you share the Gospel with an autistic child. The general consensus was that it's child abuse to teach a child, especially an autistic child, about God. That it is taking advantage of their blind trust in you as their caregiver. According to this forum, you should wait until they are old enough or developed enough to seek faith on their own. At first I was irritated almost ready to join the forum just to rebut their stupid advice. Obviously these people aren't parents. The only love greater than my love for my babies is God's love for me. And, obviously these people aren't religious. When you truly believe something, separating your beliefs from your life, as a parent or anything else, is just not possible. So, if a parent really loves their children and truly believes in the Bible, NOT teaching their children about God isn't an option. While I had plenty to say to those who answered the question, I did not have an actual answer to the question. How DO you teach the Gospel to a child with autism? My high functioning son told me he didn't want God. So, clearly I don't have the answer. Then I started thinking about where Jackson is right now.<br />
<br />
Recently, he received a Bible and a highlighter from our pastor during a special presentation at our church. He was extremely excited about the Bible, and almost blown away by the fact that I told him it was ok to mark in it with the highlighter. Seriously, it was like I told him he could have ice cream for breakfast. This might be connected to an incident where his little sister colored a whole page in my Bible with a sharpie and I cried. Writing in books (especially a Bible) is not something he's ever been allowed to do. He highlighted the passage the pastor preached from, and he's been reading his Bible, and highlighting, excitedly since. I'm just amazed at how God can take a simple thing like a Bible presentation and a highlighter and answer the prayer of a heavy heart.<br />
<br />
Thinking about the forum question and answers, I couldn't help but wonder. Maybe there is something to allowing a child to seek faith themselves. Maybe all my trying to explain things is making it harder for him to understand. Maybe I just need to let him read while I live out my faith and pray I can answer the questions that are sparked by his reading.<br />
<br />
The Holy Spirit is not hindered by the same communication barriers that hinder us. God's Word is alive and penetrating, and I know that Jackson's seeking will find that same father, brother and friend that I have worshipped my whole life.<br />
<br />
"You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart."<br />
Jeremiah 29:13<br />
<br />
One of my favorite <a href="http://rhemashope.wordpress.com/2013/01/30/supermarket-sweep/" target="_blank">autism blogs</a> shared this in a recent post, and I can't help but share it, too.<br />
<br />
"Dear restless heart, be still; don’t fret and worry so;<br />
God has a thousand ways His love and help to show;<br />
Just trust, and trust, and trust, until His will you know.<br />
<br />
Dear restless heart, be still, for peace is God’s own smile,<br />
His love can every wrong and sorrow reconcile;<br />
Just love, and love, and love, and calmly wait awhile.<br />
<br />
Dear restless heart, be brave; don’t moan and sorrow so,<br />
He hath a meaning kind in chilly winds that blow;<br />
Just hope, and hope, and hope, until you braver grow.<br />
<br />
Dear restless heart, repose upon His breast this hour,<br />
His grace is strength and life, His love is bloom and flower;<br />
Just rest, and rest, and rest, within His tender power.<br />
<br />
Dear restless heart, be still! Don’t struggle to be free;<br />
God’s life is in your life, from Him you may not flee;<br />
Just pray, and pray, and pray, till you have faith to see."<br />
<br />
~Edith Willis Linn<br />
<br />
I didn't join the forum or comment on the question, but I thought I would post what I've learned here. Sharing the Gospel with an autistic child is the same as with anyone else, you share then trust, love, hope, rest, pray and let God handle it from there. There are no barriers He cannot overcome.<br />
<br />
Maybe the next person to Google 'the Gospel and autism' will run across this post and find encouragement. "Dear restless heart, be still."<br />
<br />
Update: I let it go. I chose to wait for Jackson to be ready. I tried to answer any questions and let him take it from there. Some were easy. Some were not so easy. But, today he asked how you become a Christian. We talked through it, and he decided to accept Jesus as his savior. His heart didn't explode, but mine just might. :-)Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-70894509440320884502014-01-10T22:57:00.000-05:002014-01-10T22:57:24.650-05:00If My Son Tells You I Have Four Fake Teeth and Need Another...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgASTAOGY8vugGsgpMNbYI8H2r-gu6zhaqTINXj1xRBkBH5At16R54W2HCKVBdduQHuT-C2Y9kjNixrGbvRLYfF11iBw8BcQMoa-Zt1Xye1Nppxtf0LFAHOx4QG5RQ3XSOuARBkTtjjcWc/s1600/toothfairy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgASTAOGY8vugGsgpMNbYI8H2r-gu6zhaqTINXj1xRBkBH5At16R54W2HCKVBdduQHuT-C2Y9kjNixrGbvRLYfF11iBw8BcQMoa-Zt1Xye1Nppxtf0LFAHOx4QG5RQ3XSOuARBkTtjjcWc/s1600/toothfairy.png" height="319" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I have always liked taking care of my teeth. I brush at least twice a day. I floss. I even liked the dentist growing up. Not as much as my kids like theirs, but they didn't have gaming rooms and prize machines at my dentist. I just genuinely liked it. Crazy, huh? Well, yes, especially given the fact that I've had nearly every major dental procedure you can have before implants and dentures, well besides braces. I always thought it would be cool to have those. And, glasses, I thought glasses were cool, too. I think I may be revealing just how much of a nerd I am. I liked the dentist, wanted braces and thought glasses were cool. Add the fact that I was homeschooled and all knees and elbows and you get what my teenage dating life was like. :-) But, I digress.<br />
<br />
I was 6 when the first 'incident' occurred. My front permanent teeth were just then fully grown in. My brothers and I were playing hide and seek at my grandmother's house. I hid in the bathroom behind the curtain. Awesome, right? I was super smart, too! Anyway, when my brother found me I took off to run, slipped on the rug and hit my face on the tub. I broke my right front tooth in half. I don't remember much else except my grandmother being really worried and that it's hard to eat a cheeseburger with a broken tooth. There was also a little teasing from my little brother. My older brother was too worried to tease me. Mostly worried he was going to be in big trouble, I'm sure. My little brother wasn't quite old enough for that to register. Actually, I don't know that that kind of thing registered to him for a very long time. So, I went to the dentist, and he put a cap on my tooth. All fixed.<br />
<br />
About 3 years later, we were at my grandmother's house again, playing tinker toys, and my little brother was trying to pull apart some stuck pieces and either the toy or his elbow hit me in the face. Knocked the cap right off, another trip to the dentist. Good thing I liked him.<br />
<br />
About 3 years after that, we were playing tag in our pasture (I grew up on a farm, that gives me even more cool points) and my little brother… Him again, I know. It's like he's as accident prone as I am. You would not believe how many times he went to the emergency room as a kid. Anyway, he rushed through an open chain link gate and slammed it into my face. I was just tall enough for the metal bar at the top to hit me right in the teeth. Another cap lost.<br />
<br />
Then the dentist decided to put a metal pin in my tooth to hold the cap in place. I thought it was awesome, especially when he showed me the pin with that little dental mirror. You could see it from the back of my cap. That was the closest to having braces I ever got, and I was proud. Then I kind of forgot about the cap.<br />
<br />
Fast forward through the awkward teen years. I swear I didn't grow out of them until I was a mom, and then I entered a whole other kind of awkward. It was the summer before I went to college. Like I've said before, I grew up on a farm. I LOVED animals, and we had ANY animal my heart desired besides cows and pigs. My mom grew up with hogs and hated them, and my dad said cows were too big and might hurt me. Ha! Just keep reading to see how silly that seems now. Well, I raised and showed sheep. Yes, another super cool thing about my childhood. Well, this thing might not have been 'cool' to other kids my age growing up near me, but it really was cool and one of my favorite parts of childhood. Anyway, we had all the equipment you needed and would go around shearing for other small farms or families who had sheep but no shears. One of these farms had the kind of sheep you think about when you picture sheep, like the ones from the Bible with the speckled faces and really long fluffy fleeces. Their ram had horns, the kind that wrapped around his ears. He was really beautiful, and smaller than our sheep. Funny how smaller often means feistier. We had just sheared him and his ewes. My mom went with the owner to clean the shears and get paid while I cleaned up the wool. This owner let us keep it. I had a spinning wheel and loom (yep, more cool points, and I should probably stop saying cool points). This little guy was about half the size of the sheep we had (suffolks), and I underestimated both his anger over being stripped in 'public' AND his ability to cause real harm….<br />
<br />
Do you know why they use the word ram in the term battering ram? This is totally unofficial, but I'm gonna give you my explanation. Rams (male sheep) are the protectors of the flock, and even the ones without horns have really thick, strong skulls. When they go to 'ram' something (or someone, in this case) they run as fast as they can in the space they have, lower their heads so that their spine is completely straight and then lift their front feet off the ground so as to shift all momentum to their horns/skull. After they hit their target (instinctively they go for the head or ribs), while it is still down, they back up to do it again and again until their target is no longer moving or it has run away. That's what makes them dangerous. Tenacity and the whole using their body as a battering ram thing.<br />
<br />
So, as I was bending to gather the wool, not paying him any attention because I had totally underestimated him, and the next thing I know I am coming to on the ground seeing him all blurry and backing up to hit me again. I scramble to my feet, struggle to the gate and clumsily scale it and fall over onto the other side. Have you ever been to a rodeo? Think bull rider that gets thrown hard or hit by the bull and wobbles to safety. I have no idea how long I was on the other side before my mom came to get me. Guess where this ram hit me. Right in that same spot, my two front teeth.<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">My right front tooth was wobbly after that, even with the pin, but it didn't really hurt, not like my head anyway. I went on to college and the joys of private Christian education, but I was really sluggish about October. By November, something was really wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Right before I came home for Christmas, my face started hurting. It centered around my two front teeth, but it was the whole right lower part of my face. When I got home, we figured out it was my teeth, and I went to the dentist (a different one by now). The x-rays showed an abscess between the size of a dime and a nickel above my right front tooth. He said something about the infection progressing away from my tooth and back into my face/jaw (why my whole face hurt). Now, it's important to note that up until this point, I had never had a cavity. No fillings. The only things I had ever had done to my teeth were the caps and pin. I was not prepared for a root canal. It was brutal and evil and any other horrible adjective you can think of. Then I had a crownish thing done. I can't really remember what it was called because a crown is what you have put on your back teeth, not the front. Anyway, fixed and forgotten.</span><br />
<br />
About a year later, the same thing happened, but this time it was the incisor beside the tooth with the pin. Two root canals, and all was well, for a while. Then this happened again, one more time, infection in both teeth. Four root canals, three caps, and one pin BEFORE I had ever had a cavity. Add abscessed and impacted wisdom teeth, and I think it's safe to say the tooth fairy cursed me.<br />
<br />
So, on with my life until those two teeth started turning yellow. Nothing makes a smile sparkle like yellowing teeth, especially when they are yellowing much faster than the rest of your teeth. After I had Jacob, I felt like I couldn't handle it anymore. So, I had veneers put on. They had to do all four front teeth to make sure they were the same shade and shape. This would also be the same time I had my first cavity. I blame Jacob. Besides the fact that the dentist who did my veneers shaped them for looks rather than trying to make them fit together with my bottom teeth thus causing them to chip to fit, I haven't had any more problems with those teeth. That little booger that grew the first cavity, though. That one is the problem now. The filling came out some time after my pregnancy with Jackson and I didn't realize it and didn't have time to go to the dentist for like 2 years. By the time I went in, it was so bad, I had to have a crown put on.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to another giant length of time between dental visits and a few cavities, and that crowned tooth hurts so bad, the dentist and I had a discussion about recurring infections in teeth with root canals and how she recommends implants rather than doing more root canals. Why does the tooth fairy hate me? What did I ever do to her? Well, besides never believing in her. I blame my mom.<br />
<br />
So, finally to fill in the end of the title sentence, my kids were concerned about my hurting tooth, and they asked me what the dentist said. I've told them about my front teeth, how you never hide in the bathroom during hide and seek, the ram and all that. Now I'm telling them about maybe getting an implant, a fake tooth I explain, and my super sweet son says, "So, you already have four fake teeth, and you want another? Mom, pretty soon you won't have any real teeth left." I kinda felt like I should have said "that's funny right there" or "you might be a redneck, if" but I just said, "sometimes things happen that are out of our control." At this rate, I'll be in dentures in no time. That's one hot mama, right there. Maybe I should just get it over with and pull them all. Is there a denture fairy who could curse me? I'll make sure to believe in her. :-)Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2154243360158206591.post-43253400847331022842013-12-15T22:50:00.002-05:002013-12-15T22:52:25.451-05:00Love Like ReagenOne year ago today, a friend of mine from college lost her 10 year old daughter to malignant hyperthermia. Her name was Reagen. I never got to meet Reagen even though for a good portion of her life our families only lived about an hour apart. Her mom and I kept in touch and would talk about getting together, but life kept moving at light speed. Much of that time I was juggling therapies and school and doctor appointments for Jackson and trying to achieve as much of a routine as I could. Wrapped up in my own struggles, I just didn't ever think I would run out of time.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The night I learned of Reagen's death, I remember crumbling into tears. Jacob was next to me and didn't understand. It was so hard to look at him and explain as I thought about what it would be like to lose him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Reagen had a very generous heart, she loved Jesus and dessert. Her parents say, when they were out to eat, she would often spend her own money to buy everyone dessert. They asked for those who would like to remember Reagen, to go out today on the anniversary of her death, buy someone a dessert, share Jesus and the love and generosity that Reagen loved to share.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We didn't go out to eat today, but after I dropped my oldest son off at baseball practice, I asked my younger two where they would like to have dessert. They both said Brain Freeze (a local frozen yogurt place). I wasn't sure it was the best idea for what I wanted to do, but I had already asked and couldn't back out now. There was no one there when we arrived, and no one came in while we were there. This would likely have to do with the super cold temps and the fact that it's December. The boy working the register, whose name was Cameron, said we were the 3rd customers all day. I was a little disappointed, but then as I was gathering Jackson and his sister to go, I decided maybe Cameron should be the one to love like Reagen. So, I shared Reagen's story, her parents' request and how much Jesus loved him. Then, I gave him a little gas money. By this point, I was crying, and I could see his eyes watering, too. We talked for a little bit, hugged and said goodbye. I didn't get to share a dessert, but I did get to share Reagen's story and Jesus' love.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Reagen's parents wanted to hear all the stories from those participating, and I wanted to share. Tonight, my heart is heavy for her sweet family and for all who knew her. As I pray for all of them tonight, I will look forward to meeting this precious girl who has touched the lives of so many people, many she never met. Because in Jesus, death is never the end. It's only the beginning.</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00431744202565420453noreply@blogger.com0