Unfailing

The Boy left our home in 2009 due to some extremely poor choices. In the years since, there is often a daily struggle to love him. Not to love the him I wanted him to be, but to just love him on an entirely "as is" basis. (A mother's love is unconditional, but that doesn't mean a mother's heart gives up hope for better conditions.) Through a roller coaster of ups and downs, there has remained a carefully nurtured spark of hope that our family would one day be whole and our son would be a man of integrity following Christ. Time after time, the Boy has heaped sand on the embers of our hope. The mister and I respond by unearthing that glowing coal even though we burn our fingers trying to salvage our hope.
The Boy has been living in a temporary housing situation for the past few months less than an hour from home. The whole family made visits and attended meetings in preparation for his transition home in the Spring. The Boy made one plan after another for his imminent future; yet, none of his plans involved coming home as the season changed. Unfortunately, his plans kept falling through. Finally, he reached the point where it was a choice between the still open door of our home or foster care. And he did not choose home. It was an appalling, heartbreaking, shocking day.
Our current Bible study is over 1 Corinthians, and in the way of such things, exactly the right words were given. The week's study focused on Chapter 13 (here from the NASB):
13 ⁴ Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, ⁵ does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, ⁶  does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; ^7 [b] bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
⁸ Love never fails..." 
How does love never fail when the one loved rejects those who love him? That question is the heart of the sorrow that the Boy desires to remain apart. The particular bit about love never failing does not refer to our failure to love our son. It translates to not collapsing. We have not collapsed, but have held firm in our love for our challenge child. Christ died on a cross for those who will accept the sacrifice, but He didn't avoid the cross though there are those who will reject His sacrifice. That is the essence of our relationship with our son. We will make sacrifices for him, and we will love him despite rejection because our love refuses to fail.

Pasty

Note to Self: It's a bad idea to enter, "pasty examples," as a Google search. Next time, just go with, "pasty recipes."

Deja Vu

The final week of March, 2000 was memorable. My feisty Mammy passed away on that last Sunday on the mister's and my sixth wedding anniversary. The very next day, we discovered a termite infestation in Old House. On the heels of the termite news, we loaded up our littlies and hit the road headed to West Texas for Mammy's memorial ahead of strong storms causing tornadoes to touch down around the metro area. That particularly disastrous week ended with an allergic reaction that landed me in the E.R. Seriously.
Then again, that E.R. visit resulted in a batch of labs based on symptoms that seemed unrelated to the allergic reaction, but might have been a result of the stress of the preceding days. The results led to our family doctor opting to make a phone call on Saturday, April 1st that was no joke rather than waiting for Moday to let his nurse report the findings. All of the tumult ended with the (Surprise!) news that we were expecting Skater Girl.
This week we have Middle Child's BFF#1 staying with us after a death in her family over the weekend had her parents leaving the state for the service. Yesterday, I noticed a weird thing on the wall next to the fridge. Today, I whacked at the thing with the mister looking on in case I needed to run screaming. Sure enough, the whacking revealed (Crud. Crud. Crud.) termites hiding in the wall of New House. I scheduled the termite guy to come visit Thursday since I'll be stuck home for my infusion anyway. (The same infusion that I have an allergic reaction to every time. Awesome.) We're currently monitoring tornadoes touching down in the metro area.
Who knows... the way things are going, I'm developing a certain level of concern that I could make medical history winning myself and my doctor a place in the medical journals by turning up pregnant despite a hysterectomy.

Zombie

In the latest, "You look just like that actress..." sighting, the next door neighbor and her husband vote for

Walking Dead's Sarah Wayne Callies. With no idea who they were referring to, we made a quick online search. Skater Girl concurs. I see the resemblance here, but not so much in other images.
Middle Child and I are both zombies today. Last night's movie night (a zombie-free pick: The Vow) was interrupted by a false fire alarm at the theater. Fortunately, our screen was still showing the previews when the alarms went off requiring evacuation. (Somebody else's kid is in big trouble for that little stunt...) Waiting for the all-clear, and then for the movies to be restarted, meant returning home well after bedtime. There I found Middle Child parked on the stairs to waiting to ask for help on her course selections for next year. (Which she had all weekend...) We were up well past midnight. A few hours later, we were the walking dead shambling downstairs and out to the car at a quarter to six.

Unexpected



Unexpected * July 13, 2008

  Sometimes things crop up unexpectedly. This sunflower blooming in a field of brick and stone caught my eye years ago as the mister and I explored an area being built to replicate a European village. The first shops were open and few homes inhabited, but much remained unfinished. In the years since the photo was taken, the Village has become a popular site for photographers shooting portrait sessions.

Tomorrow night, Perfect and Middle Child, dressed in their formal finery, will be photographed by their beaming parents in the Village. In preparation, tonight will find us snapping test shots at the site. Perfect and Middle Child may be hoping this effort will yield a shorter session of parental photography before they head off to enjoy their much-anticipated evening.

The Chapel at the Village near sunset

In the midst of planning the final details for this weekend's Winter Formal, a phone call came that was no more expected than the sunflower sprouting from that jumble of stone in the Village. The Boy was calling to say he returns home in two weeks. The unlooked-for news comes as a shock. Having just made it through our third Christmas without him, we are unprepared for his nearly unheralded restoration.

Even while executing this weekend's plans, the family must prepare for the return of our prodigal son... again. The sense of anticipation that characterized his previous homecoming and our family's short-lived reunion is tempered by trepidation over his abrupt secondary departure a year ago. One can only hope that this time will be different, and that he will choose to bloom and grow here among us rather than uprooting himself and leaving us broken.

Doppelganger

I arrived at the school to pick up Skater Girl before dismissal for a doctor's visit, and duly presented my driver's license to prove she was mine. The secretary called down to the classroom. As I stood waiting, it seemed like the secretary was staring. I tried ignoring her. Finally, she said, "You look like an actress..." *sigh* Here we go. I waited for her to decide which actress she was seeing in my apparently common features.

There are several different names that come up after the initial, "You look like someone..." I waited while she continued her examination. Naming off little factoids while seeking to come up with the actress's name, the secretary mentioned that, "...the one I'm thinking of dated the guy who is with Angelina Jolie." Ah, yes. Of course. Only one of the most likely names has been linked to Brad Pitt. I suggested that perhaps she meant, "Juliette Lewis?" She grinned and clapped. I'm never quite sure whether to be concerned or flattered by these comparisons. My usual response is to feel awkward and hope for the subject to change.

Her final question was a new one though. She asked if my husband looked like Brad Pitt. The answer to that was, "To my eyes, absolutely." Thankfully, my kid turned up so I could end the conversation with a hasty exit.

Indecisive

In one of those, "Are you kidding?!" moments, Perfect asked Middle Child if she would rather go to the Winter Formal or Broomball. (The youth group's annual late-night broomball session is the same night as the dance.) This was an excellent opportunity for her to exercise a bit of self-restraint and not shriek, "YES! YES! YES! I have just been waiting for you to ask!" She was not only restrained, but avoided any indication that she was dying to get all dolled up to spend a whole night dancing with Perfect. He tried expressing that he would not want her to feel like she, "...had to get all prettied up if she didn't want to," attend the Winter Formal in an effort to get her to indicate a preference for one activity over the other. She responded with the reprehensibly unhelpful willingness to do whichever activity suited him.

She does not even like broomball. Oh, and she has decided that she does not like the shredded mullet dress, either.

Jacked

My phone believes it is plugged in to a set of headphones. This belief is false. As a result, no sound can be heard out of the phone unless it's set on speaker or headphones actually are plugged into the jack. (This is bad when a doctors office calls... twice.) Powering the phone down and then turning it back on did nothing to restore sound.
Online solutions suggested repeatedly plugging and unplugging headphones until regular sound was restored. That one failed. Another option was to blow into the hole until any dust or debris activating the headphone option was cleared. Nope. Canned air might have supplied more dust-busting power, but at that point it was beyond either the mister's or my patience to try yet another fix for the Dumbest Phone Error Ever.
Fortunately, repairs are covered through May, and I have an appointment at the Apple store to have a bonafied Genius deal with this problem. The appointment will result in either a fix or, in what would be a truly ludicrous moment, the replacement of the phone. It's been backed up just in case something goes horribly wrong causing the contacts, calendar, etc. to evaporate. Or in case of a replacement. Either way, this goofy malfunction needs to be fixed because I. cannot. function. without. my. phone.

Called

Middle Child talked a mile a minute relating an update from the weekend's youth group retreat. As Middle Child spun out her tale, I picked up Zoey (who attempted to flee, but failed to avoid my petting) telling the cat in my usual voice (and unintentionally switching to the annoying baby talk sometimes reserved for infants, pets, and cloying couples) that she was, "... fuzzy, hairy, and super, super cute!" (Dear Heavens, at least I didn't say fuzzy-wuzzy or cutesy-wootsy... Ick.) I stood stroking the cat's fur while again informing Zoey that she wasn't going anywhere until I was done petting her. The hairball patiently waited to make her escape. Middle Child continued on to her story's conclusion. The mister and I laughed along with Middle Child at the circumstances involved in her story until she gasped and pointed at the kitchen counter with wide eyes. The cat found her getaway opportunity.

As the cat sped away, I fumbled for my phone sitting on the counter top where I leaned while listening to Middle Child and cooing to the cat. The display showed a minute and fifty-six seconds into a phone call to our dentist's voice mail. It's entirely possible to hear every word said over the connection of such accidental calls. I'm just really glad that it's the mister, and not me, who will head into that office for an appointment this week. Eesh.

Define Skinny

Post-knee replacement surgeries, I discovered that my jeans no longer fit. There was so much swelling three weeks post-op that my fat jeans could barely be wriggled over my knees, and the results were miserably painful. I sucked it up and ordered two sizes up because there was a full size difference between my regular and fat varieties already. Three and a half months later, and I am still alternating between the two pair of "fat" jeans.
Not that this is a subject that really gets much thought. Today it became an issue when time to take Skater Girl to school rolled around, and I remembered that both pair of Mom Jeans had gone into the laundry last night. Oops. I responded to the misters calls for me to hurry downstairs by leaning over the railing to request tht someone grab a pair of my jeans from the dryer. The request garnered the response that the load of jeans were washing again because they smelled weird. Since the mister and I were headed off for a morning date after dropping off our youngest, sweat pants were not really a desirable option.
Wondering how clean clothes could smell weird, I grabbed a pair of my too-small former fat jeans. (Which are now my skinny jeans because my behind grew to match the once-swollen knees while I was sitting around waiting to heal...) Expecting to relive the horror of trying to cram my post-partum body into normal jeans two weeks after giving birth for the first time, enthusiasm was lacking while pulling the jeans off a hanger dredged from the nether region of the closet. Hopping out of the closet while shimmying into the pants, it was entirely surprising to discover that they weren't putting up much of a fight. The zipper went right up without pliers, or even lying down on the bed. Cool.

Heading downstairs, I was feeling pretty good about the morning's surprise size downgrade. I gave a little spin and shook my newly discovered smaller hiney. Skater Girl caught this move, and she raised an eyebrow. I explained that I was wearing my "skinny" jeans. She looked a little sick. I said, "Not skinny jeans like your sister wears. My skinny jeans. That's what women call the too-small jeans they need to believe they will one day wear again if they can just lose that last five pounds." Grinning now, she replied, "You mean those jeans that women say are five pounds away, but what they mean is more like twenty." I think we can cross Jenny Craig consultant off her list of possible future careers. She might be a comedian, though.

Sync

Climbing into the car, my phone was passed along as Skater Girl, Middle Child, and MC's Best Friend Forever (BFF) took turns picking songs to play from my recently synced iTunes. Unfortunately, the sync was not discriminating, and everything I never wanted was included in the resulting playlists. Our iTunes account has been shared by the whole family for years. Years that included a love of the Jonas Brothers, a nasty case of Bieber Fever, and the download of movie soundtracks featuring Disney stars and the Chipmunks by the girl children. Eesh.
Stopping for gas gave the ladies an extended opportunity to peruse all their old favorites from the menu of songs. Perusal which ended with the Jonas Brothers defiling my speakers. Middle Child commented that she loved the bass in the car, and jokingly suggested that we turn up the volume and roll down the windows. She knows this is a behavior that her mother generally abhors. (I do not care what you listen to inside your vehicle, but please, please, please keep it contained inside rather than inflicting your musical taste on others.) BFF agreed with MC, and they nodded to one another and laughed at the idea. Their faces changed from amusement to surprise as the volume went up and the windows went down at the next stop light.
They laughed nonstop as the car rolled on with the Jonas Brothers playing. I mentioned that Middle Child's name was displayed on a decal plastered on the back of my car as we pulled up to the next light. This news just brought on more laughter from the high school set. They were thrilled to see plenty of drivers with their windows down so the awesomeness of whichever brother was singing could be heard by all. As we turned into the neighborhood, one of the girls discovered a Justin Bieber song with plenty of bass to boom out of the speakers.

Spying a pair of curious boys staring as we came to a stop sign, I slid down in the seat. One hand loosely slung over the top of the steering wheel, head bobbing to the beat, I proceeded up the street past the now incredulous boys. The girls in the car marked this new display of Mom Gone Mad with a brief moment of silence. Another pair of kids approached on scooters and joined in the gawking as we cruised past at half the speed limit. The teenagers were absolutely shrieking with laughter. Skater Girl was down low in the back seat trying unsuccessfully to avoid being seen by the kids stopped along the sidewalk.
Once BFF was dropped off at home, we rolled the windows back up and turned on much less obnoxious music. The remainder of the drive was punctuated by residual laughter. There was no laughter from Skater Girl.  She only expressed horror that our observers were all kids from her grade. While today is proof that I will likely never be a Cool Mom, that's fine. Being terribly, laughably uncool is just so much more fun.

Tidbits: Progress

• Our church is going into a capital campaign. The purpose of said campaign is to have freedom to bring word of Jesus to more people. The first week of the Bible study intended as preparation for the campaign closed out with our visit to see The Boy at school. He said that the text of the messages from the last series in Romans (copies were provided for him by our service planning staff) have become the source of a study group formed with other guys from his dorm. I think that is exactly what "organic church" looks like as someone who loves Jesus simply shares that with others. The Movement to Multiply Our Heart is happening already.
• Having fully recovered from the dizziness and nausea that went with her ear infection, Little Bit was back on the ice in full force last week. She worked hard, and the results were exceptional. Her coach is recommending Erin advance two levels in the next session that runs from April to June. She's moving right along.
• Last night I found it necessary to referee an argument about (of all things) conversions. Middle Child was disgusted because no one would tell her how many cups were in a quart. Little Bit and I both informed her that she needed to do her own homework. She defended the lack of knowledge saying, "This is SO stupid. I don't need to know this stuff. It's not like it's on the [standardized test]!" *cough* Her sister, without missing a beat, informed her that she would so need conversions. She paused, and then crowed that conversions are used for baking. (We have clear priorities around here.) And in case she ever wanted to work in a soda factory. (Alrighty then.)

Motions

It will all work out in the kitchen. The processes of gathering the odds and ends and putting the ingredients together to create something are soothing. Fortunately, there is almost always an activity waiting to busy the hands while the mind chases down rabbit trails and wrestles with the often not-so-fuzzy bunnies to be found along the way. The process of food preparation is soothing, the art of combining ingredients and arranging plates resonates with the need to create, and hunger is cyclic guaranteeing endless opportunity.
The large trays are slapped out onto the counter followed by the packages of meat, cheese, and the bakery boxes. Glaring at the knife, the croissants fall victim to the thoughts rattling about in my head. The thoughts heave and roil, but I am going forward making dozens and dozens of sandwiches for the hundreds who will gather today. The process allows for taking out my unnamed emotions on the hapless meat, cheese, and bread combinations until the trays are piled too high for a lid to fit over them and Little Bit is begging for a ride to school before the tardy bell catches her out.
Sliding the trays into the fridge until this afternoon's memorial service, I reach for the keys the fourth grader has helpfully found. In yesterday's shirt, fuzzy socks with a pair of flats that were located in the kitchen, and a pair of sweats (from the furthest possible color family from the shirt) we stand by the car where my mismatched attire only registers as a neighbor drives by staring. We drive to the school where Erin confirms that she will be picked up early today and that her fractions homework is on her iPod ready to work on while the adults congregate at the church. She specifies which clothes she wants brought for skating (since there may not be time to come home and change before practice and her lesson tonight), and then she's off.
On the drive home, I pray. Turning into our neighborhood the stray thought invades that there was a time when the idea of praying for an hour was a serious discipline that I questioned--- wondering if it would be likely to become repetitive to pray for so long. Today that errant thought brings a sharp, barking cough of ironic laughter. Stuffing down the direction of the thoughts that threaten escape along those lines, I am back to the list of Prayer Requests. Running through them with hope, amusement, sadness, and the various emotions that embellish such prayers, until I reach the house where it's time to turn around again to take Middle Child and her science fair project to school.
Eventually, the activity of the morning slows temporarily. The kids off to school, the mister at work, and the food for this afternoon ready to go means there's no huge rush this morning despite a list of errands to run. Moving a load of laundry into the dryer, I head upstairs to knock out a few miles on the elliptical. After a few minutes and a single mile, I give up and head for the shower. There is no peace in this activity, and the to-do list of minor tasks to be ready for the memorial beckons relentlessly despite plenty of time.
Once in the shower, it all comes undone. The desire to celebrate a life well lived gives way in that private moment to the overwhelming loss of that rare breed: a truly great man. The normalcy of the morning is offensive in light of this loss. We were not created for this, and today I feel it keenly. The tears are not cathartic. This is no more than the tip of the iceberg, and I sense that there's far more grief waiting jagged and irregular below the otherwise calm surface; however, I step out of the shower to dry myself and the tears simultaneously in order to get on with all that needs doing today.

Whoopsie

Frequently, I feel smug reading the little blog posts that pop up in my home page's features about substituting high-fat,-sodium, -calorie, or chemically creepy foods with better-for-you choices. That smugness presages an obvious conclusion. Pride comes before a fall. Always. Into that same browser that so often says lovely things about dietary choices, the words calories+sunflower+seed+kernels was typed with the expectation that there would be happiness galore in the nutritional news. Selecting a known and trusted nutritional info entity to answer the query regarding the latest favorite snack was quick enough. The window opened, and after a moment of shocked silence the howling began.
Those tiny, yummy kernels have been mindlessly popped down my gullet for several days a half cup or a cup at a time thinking that they are chock full o' wholesome things like fiber and protein. They're good-for-you. It's not like inhaling cheesecake. Because cheesecake would've saved some calories. Sunflower seed kernels have 745 calories per cup. And I've definitely consumed a minimum of 5 cups over the past couple of days. One pound = 3,500 calories. I thought the scale was off this morning, but, no. It was the sunflower seeds. For the record: it was so not worth it.
But. If you're ever in the market to put on a few pounds quickly: Sunflower Seeds. Now you know.

Wardrobe

I panicked. The Little Navy Dress (LND) went back to the store in a New Year's Day flurry brought on by the news that two of the three wives from last year's party were possibly wearing pants. (I would be the third wife. And I had not really considered pants.) Except that my dress pants no longer fit quite right. The not-dressy Little Black Dress that seemed like an easy go-to solution to the oh.but.no of this unexpected last minute "What to wear?" was also too big. The weight lost (yes, people, lost...) over the holidays was seeming like less of a good thing with under five hours to go until the mister's work party started, and nothing to wear but jeans or sweats.
Asking, well, melodramatically howling might be more accurate, "Why, oh, why isn't flannel dressy?!" in the midst of the hunt for something (anything) that fit, it became abundantly clear that we had been hasty in our drive over to drop off clothes at a local charity because everything tried on should have gone into the give away bag. Ugh.  Again whining about the dressy occasion that had been a Happy Place a couple of weeks ago, the reality that we were going shopping set in with a sinking sort of dread. Again with the, "Ugh." Grabbing keys, the LND and matching accessories with receipts for returns, the mister and I tore out of the house.
After hitting a succession of shops, the mister and I finally gave up on finding something that matched the texted description of dressing, "...nice, but not a cocktail dress," and "...either pants or a dress depending on which looks better." We headed home empty-handed with the certainty that we had exhausted our options. The dress pants that were a little snug earlier in the Fall were threatening to fall off, but that's what belts are for, right? We made it out the door, and headed for the destination with insistence that we were not going to fret further over the wardrobe dramas of the day, but would instead focus on enjoying a wonderful meal with a nice group of people. Attitude adjusted, and pants hiked up, we entered the restaurant.
Where all of the other wives were wearing... cocktail dresses. *sigh*

Mystique

Today, I was making sure that I had the appropriate undergarment to wear beneath my dress for New Year's Day. I think there's a gold medal somewhere with my name on it based on the gymnastic performance involved in getting the one-piece "smoother" over all my, eh... junk. I used to think support hose were challenging. Right. This particular undergarment is flesh tone and it runs from just under the girls right on down to the thighs. This is ideal for holding one's goodies at bay under a fitted dress. (I seriously planned on something that would allow me to eat like a trucker, but the mister made this funny little sound low in his throat when I stepped out of the dressing one in the one that is going to require me to avoid breathing, so...)
I was half in and half out of the vise smoother when I heard a kid coming up the stairs. Looking down, I realized that my royal blue chenille socks and ratty bra were the only other garments currently on my body. Yanking and tugging the top of the unyielding elastic sheath upward with one hand while mashing the excess of my hips down into the depths with the other I hot-footed it to the bedroom door hoping to be either fast enough to shut the open door, or at least going to get the worst of this vision under cover before one of the children went blind. (Or worse: posted my predicament on Facebook.) Thankfully, the cat shot past headed downstairs buying me precious seconds while our youngest stopped her ascent to declare, "Hello, Zoey!" That was just the time needed to shut and lock the door long enough to finish the undergarment fitting. Eesh.
The good news is that my dress will fit properly Saturday, and my mister will be impressed. The bad news is that I'm going to have to get back into that blasted undergarment again. Last year, I had a wee tantrum  High Maintenance Moment proclaiming that it wasn't much of a date if the mister sucked all the mystery out of my feminine mystique by being present in the bathroom while I was practicing beauty secrets. He remembered this, and now he has already graciously pointed out that New House has more bathrooms and bedrooms than Old House. He seemed so pleased with this consideration of my delicate feelings. I'm just thankful that I'll be able to lock him out while I wrestle with my drawers.

Torn

We were wondering whether or not to go forward with a return trip to Honduras in the next couple of months. There is not inconsiderable expense involved in such travel, and there are real needs that could be met in Puerto Lempira with the same dollars that might go to plane tickets and travel expenses. Except that I keep seeing how there are funds that are simply not mine to allocate.
Last week, the mister had to make a business trip to splashy, trashy Las Vegas. The excesses of every sort there bothered him, and he was all-too-aware of the costs involved for his company to cover the expenses involved in the trip. Then again, the funds are the company's to allocate. So the mister flew across the country, ate the meals provided, slept on high thread count sheets, and accepted what was given to him.
He returned home Sunday to hear that there was a 6 month old baby in Honduras who weighs only 8 pounds, and that there were issues with getting enough formula to feed the babies in the milk program at House of Hope. The contrast between an opulent dinners for my mister and his coworkers and the hunger of malnourished babies a continent away was stark. We are fortunate to be able to choose to be part of the solution that meets the needs of those babies.
We again wrestled that night with the question of travel to Honduras for short-term outreach compared to the relative expenses of meeting needs for food, clothing, clean water, and education. It is not solely a question to be answered by finances, though. The Boy's situation remains challenging, and the questions of how to carry on our ministry to the children who grew under my heart is no less important to ask than those questions related to the children who capture my heart across town or across the world.
Yesterday, we arrived for the meeting that would see the Boy's disposition set for the next year or two. The professional team making determinations for the Boy's future completed the task of deciding What To Do in about two hours. (It was difficult to avoid shrieking as people lined up to tell the mister and I what great parents we are... because great parents don't have to let others make decisions for their kids. Or be separated from them before those kids are adults.) One of the professionals assisting had yet to define his fee. We expected to pay a substantial sum, but were instead told to apply the entire fee to our next short-term mission trip as his donation. This is unorthodox to say the least.
Even in a time of great challenge, we are blessed. And we see further confirmation of our likely plan to return to Honduras in the near future. I wonder if we will see Honduras or our son next? Both feel so very far away this morning. But neither is out of God's reach.

Carded

Yesterday, a friend proudly showed me the Christmas cards to benefit our local homeless shelter. The front featured a somewhat haphazard drawing of a decorated tree and a glowing hearth on a solid white background. "Haphazard," because there were an array of seemingly unrelated items in the foreground of the drawing. She proudly turned over the package of cards to show the sticker on the back proclaiming that the cards were drawn by "Jennifer, age 14" who lives at The Samaritan Inn with her mother and two brothers. Our friend stated that the name was a pseudonym for her daughter whose drawing was selected to grace this year's Christmas card.
If sending or receiving these particular cards, "Jennifer" took special care to draw the orange tabby cat on the bottom left of the card. While the family had other pets, this particular cat was lost in the shuffle of their lives. The family lives at the inn for this moment, but they have not forgotten the sweetness of their own home. They have not lost the hope of regaining a place of their own, either. Today's exchange, and the cards benefiting the inn provide a poignant reminder that not everyone will be home for the holidays this year. And that those experiencing homelessness are not faceless strangers.

Why Not

Every shred of support for our elementary Parent Teacher Association unraveled last year after we failed to give the desired minimum dollar amount (Please, do not confuse the word "minimum" with "suggested".) to the association's one check fundraiser on supply night. The mommy in charge of collecting funds at back-to-school night helpfully shared the information that a donation under $35.00 was insufficient for my child to receive the school spirit pennant all the other little duckies were going to have as a thank you for their families' extortion gifts. Whatever. Thinking about the nicety of having the kids' Christmas and Valentine's parties fully supplied by the P.T.A. (rather than trying to get a classroom full of donations coordinated only to have two dozen cupcakes bite it as one's 8 year old tries to wrestle them out of the car), and there was a willingness to consider giving more than previously allocated.
Then our P.T.A. Board decided to send home communication clarifying the importance of each family's minimum support. The letter that came home stated plainly that our school needed to raise $XX,XXX because another local school had raised as much, and our school ought to be able to raise more than their school because we are Pleasant Suburban Elementary. What?! That letter home was read with a mouth that dropped wide open and eyebrows that shot into the hairline. And reread with no less incredulity. Support our students? Absolutely! Want to show appreciation and assist in providing both necessary and sometimes extra resources for our school's dedicated teachers and staff? Yes! Pay for the engraved memorial rock in the front yard of the school, yet another puppet show, and attempt to show up another school's budget just because we might be able to do so? Um, no. Yuck.
This year, we gave those P.T.A. dollars above and beyond a basic membership to purchase school supplies for another local school where the cost of items like pencils and folders would compete with families' already under-funded food and shelter budgets. Because that is a use of our discretionary educational funding that we can cheerfully give. Our kid just knows her class will be the one that doesn't get a pizza party for 100% compliance participation in the one check fundraiser.

Nappies

The mister and I made a trek over to Babies-R-Superstore this weekend. We had a coupon for a fair discount off of a single item, and this seemed like a sign from God (or the post office) that we should start collecting cloth diapers to take to Honduras. Besides, where else is there that still stocks diaper pins? The mister and I headed toward the back of the store where the diapers were located. We eventually discovered some diaper pins buried in the furthest corner of the department. Amidst the assorted organic and chlorine-free, super, natural, ultra-green products for covering wee baby bottoms we found not.one.single.package.of.cloth.diapers. Mmmhmm. Asking associates for cloth diapers, we were directed to the front of the store where the feeding items were stocked by the third in a chain of perplexed superstore employees, the final one helpfully explaining that, even though they were called cloth diapers, people really use them for burping babies. Well. Alrighty then.