tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23218110927319129222024-03-20T05:35:01.285-04:00Life With The Lid Uplessons learned in the everydayAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-33308784110554429192014-08-21T17:23:00.000-04:002014-08-21T17:23:36.873-04:00School Days"I will never leave you, or forsake you." Hebrews 13:5<br />
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This morning my oldest began his first day of fifth grade. His last year of elementary school. It was a bittersweet morning for a mama caught between the fascination of watching a young man emerge and yet fumbling for a pause button on the calendar. All hugs, goodbyes, and "I love you's" were made at home, a safe distance from the school parking lot. Funny how time changes things. Not funny at how quickly time passes. <br />
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Watching him walk away brought back memories of those first school days, now five years in the distance. Thought I'd share an article I wrote back then...back when a little five year old began his first day of school.<br />
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"I will never leave you." We rehearsed that verse in full preparation for kindergarten which would begin the next day. We used our fingers and filled in our names when we reached our thumbs as we pointed to ourselves, "Jesus will never leave Camden." I comforted and reassured as best as any Mommy would. With smiles on our faces and butterflies in our tummies, we were ready for the big day. Then the big day arrived and the butterflies churned rather than fluttered and the cheerful eyes filled with tears. I managed to hold back my tears until I reached the car. But then I let them flow in full empathy for my little guy who needed me at the time.<br />
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At times I have experienced those feelings that my kindergartner was dealing with during those early days of big school...overwhelmed by a new phase of life, isolated though surrounded by others, and fearful of the future....grieving for the way life used to be.<br />
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I began my life in church in my mom's belly as she sat on the church piano bench every Sunday and played the hymns. I accepted Jesus as my Savior in my kindergarten class at the Christian school I attended. He's just always been there. I've never doubted that. Time and again, I've stated that through it all, God is still good and gracious. But during life's darkness, He sometimes feels worlds away.<br />
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And yet, though my feelings have at times disagreed, my heart knows that He's never been so close...holding me closely, catching my tears, and healing my heart...taking my hands to His Word to find Scriptures which remind me "I will never leave you, Denise." What a faithful Father He is.<br />
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Meanwhile, this flawed, but ever-loving Mother may be seen making another lap by the school just to feel a bit closer to a special little guy. I've only done this once, okay twice.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-21185830261728777012014-03-01T21:22:00.000-05:002014-03-01T21:22:39.810-05:00Songs of Healing<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing.” Zephaniah 3:17</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My boys’ bedroom floor became my altar in the months following Kelsey’s death. There, among the scattered Legos and army men, I bent my knees and begged for the Lord to come near. Nothing sacred about the place, only the convenience of the Ipod with speakers. I suppose moving it to another location would have taken too much time and effort. It was precious time…anytime I found myself alone in the house, I would steal away for some moments alone with the music and my God who felt so far away. But it was there, as I listened and wept and poured my soul on the carpet, that I knew He had not left me. The songs became my prayers; the ones I composed on my own consisted of two words: “Help me.” Expressions and praises that my own heart could not form came through the music. Scriptures, that I hadn’t the strength to read, came alive with an accompaniment of the piano and violin. A meager offering on my part met by abundant mercy on His.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ve written with the expectation of telling Kelsey’s story. It seems that in doing so, I’ve discovered much of mine. Perhaps that is because the short time I carried her changed my life. Her earthly body was oh, so tiny, but her impact on my heart is enormous. I’m thankful that the Maker of the Universe created her life and handed me the privilege of being her mommy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As believers, we spend a bulk of our parenthood introducing our children to and teaching them about Jesus. “Who made you?” we ask. “God loves you,” we remind. We hold their hands and lead them to Sunday School in hopes they will hide His Word in their hearts. What an honor it will be one day to take my daughter’s hand as she leads me to the feet of Jesus. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I conclude with a list of songs and Scriptures that have accompanied me on this journey of grief. God bless!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">”Perfect Peace” by Laura Story</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Send Me a Rainbow” by Laura Story</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I Will Carry You” by Selah</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Unredeemed” by Selah</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Small Enough” by Nichole Nordeman</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Every Season” by Nichole Nordeman</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Held” by Natalie Grant</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Another Time, Another Place” by Sandi Patty and Larnelle Harris</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Yours” by Steven Curtis Chapman</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Beauty Will Rise” (The Album) by Steven Curtis Chapman</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” Psalm 46:10</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But now, this is what the Lord says--He who created you, O Jacob, He who formed you, O Israel: ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.’” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Isaiah 43: 1-3</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.” Psalm 27: 13-14</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thank you for reading. My prayer is that all who hear the story of Kelsey Wynn will know and experience the love and the hope and healing of my Lord Jesus Christ. </span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*This post is part of the series, "Kelsey's Story." The series begins with the post titled, "Marge." Thanks for reading.</i></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-65954502533697217562014-02-27T15:53:00.000-05:002014-02-27T21:26:46.298-05:00My Rainbow<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy." Psalms 126:5</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Mommy, what store did you buy me from?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Mommy didn’t buy you from a store. God made you.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“But you took the pieces to God and He built me.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s right baby. He built you.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sat in astonishment at the words my three year old had just uttered. How he came up with this idea, these words, I don’t know. But what I do know is that somehow God <i>had</i> taken the pieces of me…pieces of brokenness, grief, fear, guilt, isolation, and tiny crumbles of hope. He put in me a healing heart with an added glimmer of hope….another beating heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was exactly one year and one month after Kelsey’s death that I discovered that once again, another life was growing inside mine. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the day we found out he was a boy, I wept. I sat in the passenger seat driving home from the doctor’s office with my very best posture and allowed the tears to fall. Periodically, I rubbed my swollen belly and whispered my apologies for the tears and reassured him that I loved him more than anyone ever could. I didn’t cry because he was a boy. I cried because I missed my little girl. I cried because I was scared another girl would have been seen by some as a replacement. I cried because if she had lived, would he have been formed? And I cried because I loved him and couldn’t bear the thought of another goodbye.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At some point in this journey, I became sick of the tears. Yet, on November 16, 2010, I laid on the operating room table and whispered a prayer begging for more: “Please let him cry.“ A medical assistant heard me and leaned over and quietly assured me, “He’s going to cry.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And moments later, my ten pound, five ounce rainbow baby entered the world. The tears flowed again, although this time in relief and joy, as I heard his cries. For several minutes, the only sentence my lips could form was, “Thank You, God.” I yelled it, I whispered it, I cried it, “Thank You, God.”</span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*This post is part of the series, "Kelsey's Story." The series begins with the post titled, "Marge." Thanks for reading.</i><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-15456314928361629362014-02-26T15:01:00.000-05:002014-02-27T15:39:40.386-05:00Blessings<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” Galatians 6:2</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our family acknowledges the blessings others offered on our journey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone loaded praise songs onto my ipod.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone scraped the gunk from our microwave. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone organized her funeral with dignity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone built a box to store some memories.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone bought groceries.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone wrote a song for the memorial service.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone brought my boys new crayons and coloring books.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone asked her grandmother to sew a bonnet for Kelsey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone returned the flowery crib sheets and quilt to the store.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone hugged me, looked me in the eye, and assured me it was okay that I didn’t know how to pray. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Other mommies who knew the sting journeyed with me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">People prayed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">People cooked meals.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">People sent cards.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">People gave donations.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">People said her name.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">People cried.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">People grieved.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And now, people are reading her story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some good friends gave us a pink dogwood tree as a memorial. What a thoughtful, touching gift. As the weather began to warm, we gathered the strength to go into the backyard to plant it. My husband dug the hole and I watched, contemplating holes and dirt and burial. The wind whipped through the boys’ hair as they ran in circles around us. All the while I had a mental battle as to whether at that moment I was the strongest or weakest I had ever been. I wanted to believe that I was strong because I had survived, but the weakness in me felt as if I could be carried away by the wind in an instant.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We observed the tree as it grew and began to bud. It was in full view from my laundry room window. Daily as I washed and folded, I watched its progress. Life. And then, after about five months, it slowly began to die. It withered and dried until it stood merely as a stick. No more green leaves. No more promise of the pink blossoms in the springtime. No more life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The stick remained for a while. We just couldn’t bear to take it from the ground. And then we saw it. How in the world? Where did it come from? A pink flower bloomed beside the tree. A beautiful pink petunia, eventually joined by others, grew and offered hope. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hope in the midst of heartache.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Life in spite of death.</span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*This post is part of the series, "Kelsey's Story." The series begins with the post titled, "Marge." Thanks for reading.</i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-79943178532644389212014-02-24T20:56:00.001-05:002014-02-24T20:56:55.257-05:00Snowfall<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow." Psalm 51:7</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">February 13, 2009: the day I checked into the hospital to deliver my baby who would be born still. It was one of the worst days of my life, but it was also one of the dearest. I got to hold her in my arms. What a sweet and lovely and pretty girl she was and surely would have grown to be. We rocked her and sang to her…gestures for a longing mommy and daddy rather than for the life that was already complete. We longed to return to the joy, the hope, the expectation of her life with us. And saying goodbye left me feeling torn between heaven and earth. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It also left me with an enormous feeling of isolation and shame. Though others didn’t abandon me, I felt alone. Though I had loved her with my all, I felt ashamed. Mothers are to bring forth life, not death. I took some time off work, avoided stepping foot into church, and darted in and out of daily errands as quickly as possible. When walking through the doors of a public place, I felt as if a neon sign clicked on over my head announcing to the world: “Her baby died.” I desperately wanted to hide for a really long time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">However, when you have two small boys and your yard is covered with several inches of newly fallen snow, hiding isn’t an option. Several weeks after Kelsey’s death, a whiteness covered the darkness with a blanket of snow. The boys begged to go out. The task of pulling and tugging on hats, coats, mittens, and boots drained every bit of my energy. But we made it outside. They played. I walked. And I listened to the quiet, the hush that envelops creation after a snowfall. And I heard over and over in my head, “Cleanse me and I will be whiter than snow.” The whisper directly contrasted the irrational guilt and shame screaming in my head. Standing in the open and cold, my heart quieted for a moment and the cleansing and healing slowly began. </span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*This post is part of the series, "Kelsey's Story." The series begins with the post titled, "Marge." Thanks for reading.</i><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-63295606003329328782014-02-17T11:09:00.001-05:002014-02-28T20:55:56.734-05:00The Ache<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"...O my Strength, come quickly to help me." Psalm 22:19</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My face actually hurt. All of the talking, smiling, and laughing confirming my good news had taken a toll on my cheek muscles. The early afternoon’s ultrasound started the workout….I was having a girl. I spent the remainder of the day spreading my news to anyone who would listen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Over the next month or so, we dreamed and imagined. We bought pink. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOlsFEqRnARo4VNt458u165I0eT3MDinthRtfbTkDMhd4H-Oa4DRQ6WfuxMPQl7jb96D9A8Ij5f6O3foRxj1YYuWVvnir06b-jnl0YfXJTGAE2zohgscCCz8_P0rIsEbivuvOc7ctEFK0s/s1600/DSCF0792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOlsFEqRnARo4VNt458u165I0eT3MDinthRtfbTkDMhd4H-Oa4DRQ6WfuxMPQl7jb96D9A8Ij5f6O3foRxj1YYuWVvnir06b-jnl0YfXJTGAE2zohgscCCz8_P0rIsEbivuvOc7ctEFK0s/s1600/DSCF0792.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I gathered some crayons, a coloring book, a bowl of crackers, and my two year old and headed out for a routine doctor’s visit. I was almost twenty four weeks along and by this point, I pretty much knew the drill. Check weight, blood pressure, baby’s heartbeat, and make the next appointment. All boxes were checked until we reached the heartbeat one. Hmmm, couldn’t find it with the Doppler, let’s take a look on the ultrasound. It sounded reasonable to me until the doctor collected my purse and toddler bag for me. Something struck me by his gesture. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">His next sentence was one that I have replayed in my mind thousands of times. For months, it entered my mind as soon as my head hit the pillow. I’ve wished it away with all my strength. It changed my life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> “This isn’t good.” No heartbeat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And in that moment, the real workout began. “No! But she’s my girl! I already love her,” I begged as if my pleas could alter the results. Mentally, emotionally, I fought with all my might, kicking away the idea that my baby could have died. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My doctor attempted to calm me and finally did when he motioned in the direction of my two year old. There he sat, high up on a barstool, head down, feet swinging back and forth. He knew. Not the details, but the hurt. I suppose it’s what caused him the next day to sweetly rub my belly and say, “I kiss the baby.” I suppose it’s what led him to pull down the hallway door and shower curtain while I was in the hospital. Unexplainable hurt. It’s what led my five year old to sob in wonder when his daddy told him he wouldn’t meet his little sister. Our family was shattered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Physically, my body was spent. A tear-streaked face, sleepless nights, and the pain of a c-section challenged me. Having already been through two c-sections, I knew the best therapy was walking. I sat. No diapers to change, no cries to be calmed. I sat. And hurt. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My arms literally ached. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eventually, the physical pain eased, but the ultimate throbbing remained. I spent months envious of each day’s first thirty seconds….the time before I remembered. The time before I lifted it all again and hauled it with me. Some mornings I packed it routinely-- the hurt, the sadness, the shame, the longing. Other days I could hardly lift it all, not having the strength to lug it one more moment. The love, the memory, the grief for a one pound baby was the heaviest weight I ever had to bear.</span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*This post is part of the series, "Kelsey's Story." The series begins with the post titled, "Marge." Thanks for reading.</i><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-43904429578302072772014-02-13T21:40:00.000-05:002014-02-13T21:40:18.249-05:00Be Still and Know<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"In His hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Job 12:10</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fear and comfort</span> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">oozed into my life simultaneously. They don’t seem to belong together, but are complimentary companions. The fear arrived abruptly, interrupting an ideal Saturday night complete with my husband, a movie, and a bowl of ice cream. It came in the form of a pain that took away my breath. Only eight weeks into my pregnancy, I understood all about typical growing pains; but I also had the memory of two prior miscarriages. And so with thirty seconds of discomfort, the seed of fear began to grow into hours of worry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Within moments, the soothing balm of His Word impressed upon my heart, “Be still and know that I am God.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Between the verse, prayer, and a night of rest, I felt soothed. Replaying my doubts on the drive to church the next morning began the cycle again. However, as we rounded a corner, another application of the ointment stared at me from a church’s marquee: “Be still and know that I am God.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My body and my actions were quite capable of following this command to be still, to not worry. My mind was another story. Yet, when the fear presented itself, so did that verse reminding me that God was in control. I heard it on the radio, in Bible studies, and read it in my morning devotions. It became my theme for the pregnancy.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7_w1gVvEgPdZJxqTht2wqMJxjgEBwJPww50gu0v2OZ0eAfROwFCebDDIU0smNLjpCy7GK40sr_kHW7ZJ_2a5jzDgoDIch-RmaaOEMVOnVzPL5urSphXu_KViDNRbLpKeaUPi-GIqP0rD/s1600/02-13-2014+09;32;24PM.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7_w1gVvEgPdZJxqTht2wqMJxjgEBwJPww50gu0v2OZ0eAfROwFCebDDIU0smNLjpCy7GK40sr_kHW7ZJ_2a5jzDgoDIch-RmaaOEMVOnVzPL5urSphXu_KViDNRbLpKeaUPi-GIqP0rD/s1600/02-13-2014+09;32;24PM.JPG" height="320" width="228" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At some point, it seemed that my fears concerning something ominous happening to Kelsey before birth seemed to ease, only to be transferred to the thought of her childhood, her life. I wanted to protect her from harm. How would that be possible in a world filled with so many hazards? We would show her the love of Jesus. We would pray that she would love Him, know Him, and look to Him in all things.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Though not in the manner I wanted, that’s what happened. She knows Him completely and everyday walks basking in the love of Jesus. So perhaps the verse wasn’t for me after all. It’s her life story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>*This post is part of the series, "Kelsey's Story." The series begins with the post titled, "Marge." Thanks for reading.</i></span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-91959983395957771242014-02-10T21:27:00.000-05:002014-02-27T21:36:27.476-05:00Marge<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Every good and perfect gift is from above..." James 1:17</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Boys, sitting still, and waiting aren’t typically a winning combination. But on this particular day, my three guys’ behavior seemed impeccable. They sat and they waited and then they listened. They weren’t really listening to me because I was fairly quiet, only adding an occasional polite response to a woman who had decided to relay some of her life wisdom on me that afternoon. I have no idea what her name was, but can we just call her “Marge”? Marge had seen my boys, commented on how handsome they were and then launched into a fifteen minute diatribe on how boys were good, but girls, oh my, girls, they are something else. And how I must, I simply must have one. I knew she meant well. Marge was proud of the girls in her own life and wanted me to experience some of the girl-filled wonder she had. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sat and listened, nodding and smiling. Marge had made it sound so easy--as if I could just go through a drive-thru and order one. One little girl please, pigtails, extra sugar, hold the attitude. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I made eye contact with one of my guys which he returned with an eye roll. Another offered a half grin. They knew. This wasn’t their first time hearing the “Girls are Golden” speech from someone. They’ve heard it from cashiers, waitresses, salesmen, you name it. They also knew that when we got home I would hug them and assure them I’m thrilled to be a mommy to three boys.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHq-_GgbOnGsMzjwF_QJRAfVicG2WqhNTiB_md7irlpdPrNHl5gRQCmBhewgil-JnHx-jxC8D_cOO3dY6QkU8owlhwcntWl6CKcicy661a7gncqNRdzFB73tprmpoVxfdmP0ZUsBh3ABJ/s1600/546916_646709505352731_1497439434_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHq-_GgbOnGsMzjwF_QJRAfVicG2WqhNTiB_md7irlpdPrNHl5gRQCmBhewgil-JnHx-jxC8D_cOO3dY6QkU8owlhwcntWl6CKcicy661a7gncqNRdzFB73tprmpoVxfdmP0ZUsBh3ABJ/s1600/546916_646709505352731_1497439434_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Marge made a good argument that day. She was exactly right. Girls are simply wonderful. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I know because I had one. I have one. My daughter, my girl, Kelsey Wynn. And this is her story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*This post is the first in the series, "Kelsey's Story." Thanks for reading.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-56335173054638089172014-01-26T17:28:00.000-05:002014-01-26T17:28:59.746-05:00Hitting the Wall<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The treadmill is now facing a brick wall. Nice planning. Great motivation. As if I needed any more stumbling blocks to get in the way of my poor attempts at exercise. We rearranged the playroom and the treadmill got a new home. At least it's<i> </i>by the window. However, my lack of coordination hinders my ability to look sideways out the window and keep my balance all at the same time. Besides, aren’t you supposed to look ahead? Stay focused? So I walk--briskly at times--but walk, looking straight ahead at this brick wall. For some time now I have toyed with the idea that this all means something. I’m huffing, puffing, sweating, working, and getting absolutely nowhere. The brick wall stands in my way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then it hit me…not the wall….fear. Fear is my brick wall. It stands in my way, a definite force to be reckoned with. I walk through life huffing and puffing to keep up with the pace and when I look ahead, there it stands….its pack of lies, its list of what-ifs, and its giant eraser sweeping across my hopes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While on that treadmill, I often imagine knocking down that wall. Imagine myself out somewhere running in the sunshine unencumbered by my own rickety-knees and ice cream-loving body. No brick wall. Freedom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And so, I walk. Claiming His promises between breaths, holding on to His Truth with each step. Removing the bricks one at a time. And running to exchange fear with faith. Freedom.</span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-86159140609493320392013-12-09T16:52:00.001-05:002013-12-09T16:52:57.636-05:00Collapse at Christmas<div class="MsoNormal">
"When they saw the star, they were overjoyed. On coming to the house, they saw the child with His mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped Him..." Matthew 2:10-11</div>
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So far the Christmas tree has fallen three times. Fortunately, topples one and two occurred
before any ornaments made their way onto the scene. They did happen, however, after much pulling,
tugging, and holding in an attempt to get that stubborn tree to stand up
proudly in the stand. Fall number three
would be described more as a “crash” than a mere tumble, complete with the
sounds of shattering glass, little boys running in fear, and a mother calling
out in unseasonal cheer. </div>
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It wasn’t quite the festive afternoon of tree decorating we
had planned. We were supposed to be
stringing lights, putting up the stockings, and decking the halls. Not sweeping up broken pieces and reassuring
the boys that it was okay to put another handmade decoration on the tree. They shied away from the project and hubby
and I cautiously finished while holding our breaths that it wouldn’t all
plummet again. </div>
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After all, you don’t want it all to fall apart at
Christmas….and yet, how often it does. Budgets
descend as the gifts are bought, schedules collapse under the weight of another
party, and spirits depress despite the season.
Somewhere under the piles of crinkled wrapping paper and the platters of
sugar cookies, the love and the joy get buried.
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So perhaps rather than letting it all fall apart, we need to
just fall down. Rest in the Reason we
celebrate. Fall down at the manger. Peer in at the Gift from Heaven. Admire the One whose hands created the world
yet takes the broken pieces of ours and makes them whole again. Take some time
to breathe. Smell the hay that holds Him
humbly. Lift up the Name of Jesus. Fall down this Christmas.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-45749585012085042812013-05-28T10:34:00.000-04:002013-05-28T10:34:22.161-04:00Butter Cookie Banana Pudding<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOAIDyWBulwS04Pa0X9-mh4fexTOsZ8pclcIXBtzo_2BvaCXIE67d55V33p6KUZAN3Ak0aJSqRpj8q5n2UpCrHkkGYvTi3plm68bbdvnRd0wjhQO6ck0iBJTiV9cPzWfB0e5Iqnw-1LaZf/s1600/PICT9544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOAIDyWBulwS04Pa0X9-mh4fexTOsZ8pclcIXBtzo_2BvaCXIE67d55V33p6KUZAN3Ak0aJSqRpj8q5n2UpCrHkkGYvTi3plm68bbdvnRd0wjhQO6ck0iBJTiV9cPzWfB0e5Iqnw-1LaZf/s200/PICT9544.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Okay, I’ll admit it. I don’t use Vanilla Wafers in my banana pudding. If you are a Southerner, take a few deep breaths…I promise it’ll be okay. I add an unexpected ingredient also. We’ll get to that soon…after you recover from the cookie revelation. My swap out from the traditional favorite came from necessity. After becoming a stay at home mommy, I became a deal seeker in an effort to keep my new gig. I also had more time to fuel my love of cooking. So when I discovered my husband’s aunt’s banana pudding recipe in her church cook book, I knew I wanted to give it a try. It’s a staple dessert found each year at the Fourth of July cookout. So I made my list, clipped my coupons, loaded up my munchkin and headed off to the grocery store. I picked out a bunch of bananas, cool whip, sour cream (yep, sour cream) and rounded the corner to the cookie aisle. Much to my dismay the “Nilla Wafers” were nearly four bucks a box! I scanned the row for a sale price, something to rescue me and my banana pudding. That’s when this frugal momma made a dessert-altering decision. I found the Sunday School cookies. You know, the little round butter cookies that you can put on the end of your finger. I tossed the package in the cart with optimism and haven’t looked back since.</span><br />
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Butter Cookie Banana Pudding<br />
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1 large package vanilla instant pudding<br />
2 ½ cups milk<br />
1 teaspoon vanilla extract<br />
8 ounces sour cream<br />
8 ounces Cool Whip<br />
4 bananas<br />
1 package of butter or shortbread cookies<br />
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Whisk pudding mix, milk, and vanilla extract for about two minutes until thickened. Stir in sour cream and then gently fold in Cool Whip. In a large bowl, layer cookies, bananas, and pudding mixture. Top with crumbled cookies.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-63713070880649061272013-05-13T21:06:00.000-04:002013-05-13T21:06:48.933-04:00Reign on Me<br />
“The LORD reigns, let the earth be glad; let the distant shores rejoice.” <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Psalm 97:1<br />
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“Rain, rain, go away<br />
Come again another day<br />
My boys really need to go<br />
Outside to play.”<br />
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If I’ve learned anything over the past few weeks as we’ve been soaked with rain, it’s that this family does not need to move to Seattle, England, or the Tropical Rain Forest in the foreseeable future. These boys really don’t need to be cooped up in the house and mama really doesn’t need them to be either. Even after surviving the pent-up energy levels, there’s the mud to deal with. Whoever designed my kids’ shoes with all of their crevices for holding dirt, mud, and rocks, must have had enough money to hire a maid. Now don’t get me wrong, I like the rain. Rain that fits into the day’s plans. Rain that doesn’t ruin a picnic or parade. There’s nothing like a nice shower to cool a hot day. Or a steady rain when you can curl up with a blanket and a bowl of soup. It’s the times when you’re out trying to do life and the drizzles turn into downpours that get to me. When you’re holding a toddler’s hand, pushing a shopping cart, and attempting to load up the week’s groceries. The times when the flat iron has made it out of the cabinet and through your hair and of course, the umbrella is no where to be found. Or when you’ve gone out on a limb and mopped the floors and the children run through the backdoor with a vengeance (see above reference to mud.) Rain that muddies life.<br />
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“Reign, Reign, go away<br />
Come again another day<br />
This girl really wants her own way.”<br />
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Then there are those times when the skies are clear and we've got it all together. Things are nice and neat, just the way we want. Jobs seem secure, relationships feel comfortable, someone agrees to try spinach at dinner. Life is sunny. Then the drip drops gently descend or the bottom falls out and life is no longer the way we’ve planned. We stomp our feet in the puddles and demand life go the way we desire forgetting that the One who creates the rain is reigning.<br />
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“Reign, Reign, come today.<br />
Rule my life in every way.<br />
This girl really wants You to stay.”<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-47764462329804544282013-04-25T21:14:00.001-04:002013-04-25T21:14:59.039-04:00Rotini Faith<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ." I Corinthians 10:5</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Sometimes you just have to buckle up your pasta salad.” That’s what I thought as I strapped in a couple of really big bowls of it into my minivan. It was enough to generously feed at least fifty. And the last thing I wanted to happen towards the end of a busy day was to have pasta salad slipping and sliding all over the place. Noodles going one way, veggies another, and mayo coating all else. No, I wanted it all together in its respective bowls, safely buckled in for the ten minute drive to church.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sometimes you just have to buckle up your thoughts as well. Life can be going smoothly, just riding along--thoughts on the day’s blessings, even throwing in a “Thank you, Jesus” for His goodness. It’s amazing how quickly one bump in life’s road can cause the whole thing to just fly in the air causing a big ol’ mess. One seed of doubt creeps in and suddenly I have fears spilling out, worry pouring in, and self-doubt sliming its way all over me. These are times to not let my faith spiral, but to trust that He has me safely buckled in His grasp.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2321811092731912922.post-17525074044249818452013-04-18T21:24:00.000-04:002013-04-18T21:24:51.442-04:00Everyday Life<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Show me Your ways, O LORD; Teach me Your paths." Psalm 25:4</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In a house filled with my hubby, three young boys, two goldfish, and m</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">e, whether it’s the volume, stacks of papers, tempers, or quite frankly, the </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">potty lid, something is generally up. While we are up and going, life </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">somehow quickly passes by and before we know it, we’re turning the calendar </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">up another month.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAw6pFHihkVd9JSFsCMgIxRDVVLGV508kdrjwS6C1Kwkck-quI0atwj-t6Tny37peGrn_UMgg_ZI8OOC_2SNlyNtruHr0XQquaLfK11V_cjOet04atwKX6wxpr2LLWQjl2QjD-9uVLIr7Q/s1600/PICT9413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAw6pFHihkVd9JSFsCMgIxRDVVLGV508kdrjwS6C1Kwkck-quI0atwj-t6Tny37peGrn_UMgg_ZI8OOC_2SNlyNtruHr0XQquaLfK11V_cjOet04atwKX6wxpr2LLWQjl2QjD-9uVLIr7Q/s200/PICT9413.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don’t know about you, but it often feels like plenty of my days are just ordinary ones--filled with routines and ruts. Rolling out of bed, finding the coffee, laundry, mealtimes, dishes, homework, laundry, night-time tuck-ins. Did I mention laundry? But it’s there, in those everydays, that I seem to learn the most. The unplanned, run of the mill moments when life offers up a lesson needing to be learned. I know God still does miracles and makes rainbows but more often in my life, I see His hand moving and His voice whispering while I’m busy doing the things that make up my everydays.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s the times when I’m kissing a boo boo that He soothes, “I’ll heal your heart.” It’s in the piles of laundry that He reminds me, “I can move mountains.” It’s during the excitement of a basket scored that He exclaims, “My joy is your strength.” It’s when the budget doesn’t balance that He declares, “I am your portion.” It’s the times when I repeat over and over, “Don’t hit your brother! Brush your teeth. Do your homework. Put the lid down! Remember I love you!” that I hear Him calling, “Be kind. Keep your way pure. Read my Word. I forgive you.” And oh, “Remember, I love you!”</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02203697223122003236noreply@blogger.com8