My diagnosis

Recently, I was sort-of diagnosed with pre-diabetes (can you tell I'm in denial)....

That's the background info for the upcoming moment in time, courtesy of child #9.... (going in age)...

I was changing the laundry, having argument number 2, 947 for the year with our next to youngest child. The argument is a typical one in our house -- who is fatter, Mom or Dad.

My wonderful son, knowing of my current diagnosis, shouted, "There is NO way that Dad is fatter than you. If he was, he'd have rabies too!"

Passion

I am a passionate person. Not passionate as in I'm a great lover, but passionate about a lot of stuff.

I can go back through my life and remember things I've been so passionate about:

I used to sum it up as: God and people and bringing the two together.

More specifically, this includes:

Jesus ... from the time I was three ... and what I have believed it means to know HIm

Being with my friends and getting them together, especially old ones

Mexico, Hispanic Culture and Hispanic ministry

Macintosh computers and everything I have learned to do with them/through them/because of them that have made me be able to communicate Christ and my other passions to poeple

and now, my life is consumed with a targetted passion: getting waiting kids into homes before they age out of the child welfare system.

I have so many ideas of how to make things important to me happen, but no time. I even think I could get my ideas funded, but there are only so many hours in a day...

I wish I could find ten bored people. I could keep them busy several hours a week for years....

Bloggoring

i've seen other blogs
like rosie
who writes like this
2 cool or 2 busy or 2 stylish
2 just write boring stuff
like paragraphs
or sentences

but that seems more creative
more interesting
than my perfect sentence structure
punctuating
paragraphing.

Can creative juices flow in paragraph form with correct punctuation?

What kind of people don't sleep in their own master bedroom?

My parents are awesome. Modern day saints if you ask me. After being involved in church work for years, they married (at 40 and 33) and raised three children -- my dad as a bivocational pastor and my mom as a day care mom and a teacher's aid. When my Dad was 70 and my mom 63, they went on a missions trip to a Native American boarding school several states away from their home of 25 years. They fell in love witht he place and within 6 weeks had moved there -- my mom serving as a full time employee and my dad under a volunteers contract.

Within a year they had realized they had found their calling and decided to stay. They sold the home of my childhood and bought a double wide trailer, which, ironically, was probably the newest and nicest home they had ever owned.

I'm visiting them sitting in that trailer right now and am amazed at their choices. They bought a three bedroom trailer. On one end, the master bedroom and bath -- a beautiful room, spacious and stylish. The master bath, complete with sunken tub and a shower, and a double sink.

The other end there are two small bedrooms and a simple guest bathroom.

My parents moved in to one of the small bedrooms and began to set up the master bedroom and suite so that they could be a "bed and breakfast" for visiting volunteers at the school. The bathroom remains spotless, with all the toiletries supplied, and always with clean towels. The bed is always made up with clean sheets and they have had numerous guests, including me and various representations of my family, here over the years.

Now they are 76 and and 82 and the guest room is still open to whoever might need it. And the small bedroom belongs to them, the other small bedroom a den.

What kind of people make those kind of choices? People with a mind and heart ready to serve and a commitment to that service that never ends.

I'm a Puzzle

Since i turned forty I have realized that my life is like a big puzzle. Each person, each place, each experience is like a piece. If I go too long focusing only on the pieces that occupy my current situation, then the rest of the pieces go out of focus. It makes it difficult then, for me to see who I really am. Parts of who I am become dull, lifeless, faded.

In returning to my parents home, sitting through the family slide show once again, hearing more about my parents lives, those puzzle pieces become bright and shiny again.

When I see an old friend, or send an email to someone, or visit an former home, those pieces become clearer.

I am the whole puzzle, not just the small part of it that I am so entrenched in at the moment. But if I forget the rest of me, I don't have all that I need to deal with the issues that are ever present and pressing in the small part of me in the here and now.

"Good" Morning!

The words good morning are spoken all over every day. But in our house when my husband asks how the morning went, it is something spectacular when I say it was a "good morning."

A good morning means that everyone can find their jacket, clothes, backpacks, socks, shoes (and that's in the springtime)
A good morning means that nobody screamed, nobody hit anybody, nobody called me a name, nobody had a meltdown.
A good morning means that nobody lied about brushing their teeth or combing their hair or taking a shower.
A good morning means that everyone nicely told me good-bye, even with some hugs and a kiss or two.

Maybe there are families out there that have many good mornings, but we're not one of them.

I needed a good morning this morning as we are dealing with the disappointment of having one of our children betray our trust. It was a shock -- which I suppose it shouldn't be -- becuase we really believed in him and trusted him. So emotions have been running high (as have been my blood sugars because of the stress) and we've had late night discussions, lack of sleep, etc.

Sometimes I think that God looks down and says, "Those people need a break."

Melancholy Baby

My melancholy moments are few and far between. Tonight I'm having a few.

Bedtime was much less than acceptable. At 8:45 our trumpeteer decided she needed to practice even though there were three kids in bed.

Forty five minutes after bedtime, our youngest was still talking, and the boy from therapy -- well, I caught him sneaking into the kitchen an hour after the appointed time.

I'm alone waiting for my husband to come home from his late night meeting and sensing the weight of parenting more than usual tonight.

Ten kids. Ten histories, none of them pleasant. Ten stories of abuse and/or neglect. Ten sad starts. Ten lives that we were supposed to be able to, if not rescue, at least improve. Ten kids who at one point appear to be normal, typical kids, and the next seem unreachable, too damaged, beyond our ability to help.

And yet, even in the midst of the angst, there is always that beacon of hope. There is always that remind that each of the ten is better than their former self. There is that hope that with God's help and healing, and our persistence, commitment and tenacious love, that they will continue to move towards the people they were intended to be.

There are days when the hope wears thin, but no matter what, we will be their parents and we'll never, ever give up.

Bedtime

I spent an hour at the therapist office with my ten year old son today. We spent the entire hour talking about bedtime and how he could get there on time. We made a list of all the things he needed to do before bed. We put them in order. We numbered them. He made promises. We made a special deal about him being in bed on time and getting a reward.

He left it on the counter at the therapists office while we were scheduling his next appointment.

I made him go back in and get it.

Then he left it in the van.

I made him go back and get it.

It's 8:37. He has seven minutes left. He just went upstairs. He won't make it.

And he is one of 7 that I need to get there tonight....

Bedtime. Love it.

A moment of free time

For the first time in weeks I have an empty in-box.... and a free moment.

Wanted to post a quick story.

Dominyk (now age 9) found a dead baby bird a couple weeks ago and turned to me, with all the drama he could muster and asked, "Why do the good die young!"