This changes everything...

Sometimes, I wish there were cameras in my house that could document the events of a single day.

Like when my husband gets home from work and he asks me how my day was, and I make a sound that comes out something like "blecharggrrpllll" ...he looks at me like I'm probably exaggerating, and I wish for just a moment that I could show him a tape to confirm my articulate expression of the craziness.

The other day my youngest son poured himself a drink from a jug in the pantry. It wasn't juice, it wasn't coke, it wasn't water. It was olive oil. When he realized how nasty it tasted, he promptly spit it all over the kitchen floor.

Yesterday I walked into my bathroom and noticed that the toilet had been filled with an entire tube of toothpaste. I still haven't cleaned it up.

While I was taking a shower, the boys used the contents of our fruit bowl as baseballs to toss back and forth through the hall. They aren't very good at catching them, though. Every single apple now has a giant bruise on it, and I'm pretty sure I saw one apple laying underneath the bench in my entry way. It, like the toothpaste in the toilet, is still there.

My bathroom mirror has a half dozen fuzzy spots on it from a child attempting to "clean the mirror for me" ...with hairspray. Its a big mirror, so I just step to the side if I can't see in a certain spot.

There are multiple articles of children's clothing in my backyard, because something about playing outside gives my kids the urge to strip down to...nothing. Eventually I will have to go get the clothes and wash them. Eventually.

The kids took all the cushions off the couch to make a "jumping pit," and then they got distracted by all the stuff they uncovered under the cushions. It was almost snack time anyway, so I wasn't too concerned that they decided to eat the old chips and goldfish and skittles they found.

The boys took a very exciting and creative shower the other day, where they used conditioner to make the whole thing so slippery they could barely stand up.

My oldest son came into my room last night and said "Mom, there's something crunchy in my hair." I examined the spot, then leaned in to smell it...yeah, it smelled like a hot dog with ketchup. We haven't had that for supper in at least a week.

On our way to the grocery store, a child rolled down his window and tossed out a toy...onto the road...as if it was a totally normal thing that he does every day.


Truly, it boggles the mind, this day-to-day life that I have. I am a crazy person most of the time.

In the rare moments, when I am not giving myself a sore throat from shouting over top of the madness, I wonder if it will ever be peaceful, relaxed, and normal in my house. Will I ever go to bed WITHOUT a headache caused from clenching my jaw all day long? Will my house ever be clean for more than 5 minutes? Will we ever have an entire gallon of milk in the refrigerator for more than an hour? Will I ever NOT know the words to every single PBS kids song? When will I be able to stop saying the sentence "Go to the bathroom right now before you pee your pants." ???

Will. There. Ever. Be. Peace?

Yesterday I heard a single sentence that changed everything.

It was during a 5-minute-escape time, where the kids were left to their own devices while I made a reservation online, and during which they rummaged through the contents of a kitchen drawer and had a battle with rolling pins. It was in a blog that I follow occasionally, this sentence, and I was skimming through it, hoping for something to calm my tumultuous emotions.

Because I've been feeling pretty beat up the last few weeks. Emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Just a general wearing down, curled into a ball so when I get kicked it hurts less, crying for no reason whatsoever, snapping at my husband for stuff he didn't even do, impatient, isolated, hurt, sad...blecharggrrplll.

Then, one sentence.

PEACE IS A PERSON.

Time stood still, I'm telling you. My heart stuttered. My breath hitched.

I've been turning it over in my mind since yesterday, and I won't expound on everything Peace has been saying to me since then, because He will say something different to you, I'm sure. But, suffice it to say, all my searching, and hoping, and clenching my jaw, and yelling till my throat is sore, and STRIVING, is useless. Totally unnescesary, and utterly unsuccessful. I can't create peace in my house.

He's already here.

I just forget to look for Him.

I see the olive oil on the floor, and the toothpaste in the toilet, and the apples covered in bruises.

But I miss Peace. Because when I hear "Mommy, you're so pretty," I am too busy cleaning up to really HEAR Peace speaking to my hurting heart. And when I am asked "Mommy, will you snuggle with me?" I am too overcome with stress to recognize Peace whispering for me to stop for a moment and offer the love to my little ones that is freely given to me.

Peace is a person.
And He's already here.
We just aren't looking in the right places for Him.

Stop.
Take a breath.
Peace.
Is.
Here.

What does it mean to you today?

The Gamer

I love to play games.

Not in the bad way you might be thinking. I don't like to manipulate people's emotions, or play pranks, or sit in front of a television or computer with a controller, or any of the other possibilities that spring to mind when the term "playing games" is mentioned.

I'm talking about an old fashioned, requires a card table, needs multiple players and a pen and paper for keeping score, GAME.

I've been an avid gamer since I was a small girl.

I have early memories of Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land, and Sorry. After that are memories of Clue, where my dad devised a number system for my sister Joy because she wanted to play but couldn't read well enough, and one of my all time favorites, Columbo. (I am betting no one has even heard of that game, but my siblings and I could play it for hours.) Of course there are also the usual suspects; Monopoly, Life, Mouse Trap, Parcheesi, Scrabble, Risk, and Backgammon. And card games; Canasta, Spades, Hearts, Rook, etc. When my dad left for a missions trip to Africa for two weeks, he gave my brother and I each a deck of cards, and told us he wanted us to know how to shuffle by the time he got home. (we were 9 and 7 at the time) We practiced every day, and you better believe we knew how to shuffle when he walked in the door, stinky and tired and bearded, two weeks later.

When my daughter, Faith, was really little, I began passing along my game-love to her. She, I am proud to brag, could independently play Guess Who and Memory as a three year old. And she won with surprising regularity, even when I wasn't LETTING her win. Although, to be honest, I always let my kids win at Memory. Just last year, when Nate and I were playing a round of Memory-Superhero edition, I turned over a card with the Hulk on it, and then missed revealing the match, turning over Wolverine instead, and my sweet son, in his attempt to help me, shook his head and sighed. "Mom, you're not very good at this game. You have to REMEMBER where the other cards are if you want to win." (he was 5 at the time) I wonder how many year it will take him to figure out I was leaving the Hulk match for him to collect because I know Hulk is his favorite.

Faith is now 11, and she can play any game we pull out of our large, full to capacity, game closet. Clay is 9 and he can play almost all of them too. We frequently have "Martin family game night," and its one of our favorite things to do as a family.

You get the picture. I like games.

Its very competitive in our house too. (with three boys (well, four if you count my husband) how could it not be?) Faith is a typical first-born, and always wants to win, because nothing else is PERFECT, and I can hardly fault her for that, since I feel that way too. Although I will say, as a mom, its more important that we have a fun time playing than that I come out the victor...but only when my kids are playing against me. If we are on the same team, I want us to crush the competition, and when its a game with other adults, I definitely want to be the winner. I'm pretty good at games too, if I do say so myself. Not because there is anything special about me, but mostly because I've been playing games for my whole life, and practice makes perfect-ish.

The one person I almost never, ever, win against, is my dad. I don't remember when I was really small, if he 'threw' games for me or not, the way I do with my kids, but I do remember as I got older, knowing from the very beginning that it was a battle for second place on our Bausum family game nights.

He crushed us in Scrabble, and Monopoly, and especially Risk. And in Spades too. He is just good at games, which is partly because he, too, has been playing them his whole life, and partly because he's just really awesome. Somehow we never minded losing to him (well, not too much) because he was always a gracious winner. In fact, I remember one hand of Spades, when I was 11 or 12, where Daddy bid zero, and my brother and I both threw out small cards, causing him to take a trick and thereby lose points. "Man, you set me!" he exclaimed in surprise. Honest-to-goodness, I wanted to take my card back and play something else. He was just so sweet and accepting and not mad at all, and I, suddenly and only for a moment, wanted him to win.

Once, when I had strep throat, Daddy and I played a game of Axis and Allies. (a much more complicated version of Risk, complete with World War 2 war strategies and multiple hours of battling and maneuvering) This particular game is one that my dad excels at. Strategy and clever maneuvering are his forte. He almost always wins, no matter his opponent. In fact, shortly after Heath and I got married, we were playing it one Sunday afternoon, and I couldn't figure out what to do, so I called my dad on the phone (its important to note that I was in Indiana and my dad was in South Carolina at the time). After a few minutes of describing the board to him, he gave me the strategy I needed to eventually win the game. That was the last time Heath permitted me to call my SC home during a game. Anyway, back to the game when I had strep throat, I don't know if the antibiotics gave me extra super-luck, or if my dad was taking it easy on me because I was sick, but I beat him that day. I was 13 or 14 at the time, and that was the very last time I ever played Axis and Allies as an opponent of my father. It was 20 years ago. Might as well end on a high note, right?

By now you are probably wondering what this blog post has to do with anything, and where I am headed with all these game stories.

Last week my dad came over for supper (my mom is out of town) and we decided to play a game afterward. It was me, Daddy, and Heath, and the winner of both games we played was...

ME!

After the first game, my dad shook his head and said, "She thumped us!" And after the second game, he offered me a high five of congratulations. (I may or may not have floated around the house in sheer joy for the rest of the evening. That is how rare it is for me to win a game against him,) He came over for another meal a few days ago, followed by another game. He had never played that one before, and after we taught it to him...he beat us soundly. Sigh.

Winning against my dad is just as great as losing to him, because he's a good sport either way. And this is a lesson I am now attempting to pass along to my kids.

Still waiting for the moral of this story?

There isn't one. I just wanted to have it made public that I beat my dad at a game, TWICE in one night.

And, also, I wanted to say that bonding over a game is way more memorable than lots of other things you could do with your kids. I remember SO many family game nights from my childhood. My siblings and I are still avid gamers, and I wouldn't trade a single moment of Monopoly or Scrabble or Clue, despite the fact that we all lost every single game to my dad...

Playing a game together strengthens your relationships with your kids, or parents, or siblings, or friends, and it makes a great memory, as well as a mediocre blog post.

Challenge for the day: Play a game with someone in your life. Just don't invite my dad if you want to win. Or my daughter, Faith. She is ruthless, no matter how nice she may seem.

I, for one, am planning to lose a few rounds of Superhero Memory after breakfast.

Happy gaming, and not the bad kind!

The Imposter

I flew on an airplane today. It was the first time in 11 years that I have flown. (I’ve been a little busy having and raising blond headed geniuses, after all)

A lot of things have changed in 11 years. For example, I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve ever had to remove my shoes, and then stand with my arms over my head while a machine x-rayed my entire body. I was tempted to ask them if they could tell me my body mass index while they were at it…but lets face it, who really wants to know that anyway?

We ate an early lunch of nasty, greasy, airport Pizza Hut, and then boarded one of the smallest regional planes I’ve ever been on. (Or, maybe all planes are smaller than they seemed to me 11 years ago, when I was still a kid.) After that, we witnessed an argument between the flight attendant and the passenger sitting in the seat behind us. (This argument was over the vitally important matter of whether or not the passenger was allowed to have his own personal magazines in the seat pocket in front of him during takeoff.)

Why was I on a plane today, you ask? Well, funny as it feels to me to say aloud, I am speaking at Teen Mania Ministries, a teen missions organization based outside of Dallas, TX, tomorrow morning for their mid-week chapel service. And why am I doing that, you may further inquire?  They (Teen Mania) are the ones who published the book I wrote about my sister, Joy, and they invited me to come and share about it. (Confession: It took all my will power to give that answer instead of the first one that popped into my mind, which was “I HAVE NO IDEA WHY!”)

I don’t do things like this. I don’t leave my kids at my sister’s house for the night, jump on a flight to a state halfway across the mainland,  speak to a group of accomplished, Godly men and women, and then fly back home in time to pick up my kids and put them to bed.

I feel like such a fraud. In fact, I felt all day long like someone was going to take one look at me, glance at my ID and info, and then say “Sorry, only street savvy, world-wise, cool people get to fly, and I’m pretty sure you smell like peanut butter sandwiches and pee.”

Who am I kidding? I can’t be this person. This morning I made up a story about a raccoon to distract my three-year-old while he was sitting on the toilet trying to…take care of business. THAT’S the person I am. 

There are no magazines in my house that can cause intense debate of any kind. (All the magazines are either about financial analysis, saltwater fish tanks, or Legos) (and while the Lego magazine can occasionally spark heated discussions about which set should be purchased first, at least it doesn’t nearly come to blows like the debate that took place behind us on the flight today!)

Its almost comical, this whole thing. Its like I’m living someone else’s life, not mine. It will only last 24 hours, but I am unsure if I can hold onto my fake bravado for that long.

I’m terrified. I am convinced that I will step up on that stage tomorrow and everyone will see through me, and instantly know that I have no business speaking to them about anything, unless they want tips on raccoon potty stories or Lego sets.

I’m totally unqualified, utterly unworthy, and completely out of my element.

I’m pretty sure that’s exactly the way the Lord wants me to feel. Because if I was calm, in my element, capable, then I wouldn’t be praying like CRAZY. And if I was qualified, then I could take some of the credit. And if I was worthy, then maybe I would get some of the recognition.

Bu I’m just a regular, southern, country girl. I have holes in all but one of my pairs of jeans (which are the ones I’m wearing today, by the way) and calluses on my feet. Last week I went blackberry picking with my kids and let them play in the rain. I wish more than anything that I was wearing cut-offs and a sweatshirt right now, playing board games and eating peaches at my kitchen table with those wild little blond headed geniuses.

Instead, I’m praying like crazy, wondering who in the world thinks they should ever expend a second of energy arguing about magazines, hoping that supper will be less greasy than lunch, and holding my breath that no one calls me out for being an imposter on the world scene.

If I didn’t know better, I would be convinced that the Lord made a rather large mistake. He really would have been better off asking someone else to do this, spread this story, share His glory, point people to His heart.

But because I know that He doesn’t need a giant x-ray machine to see inside me, and He doesn’t get fooled by hole-less jeans, and He still chose me to do this…I’m just gonna keep praying like crazy, and keep putting one foot in front of the next, and keep swallowing the lump in my throat, and keep remembering, always remembering, that it doesn’t matter who I am, or am NOT.

It matters who HE is. And He is worth a greasy lunch, a giant x-ray machine, a cramped flight with ridiculous people, and the exhaustion of trying to hold it all together for 24 hours.

But when I get home, I’m going back to being the real me. This imposter that is parading around in my body can only keep her crap together for 24 hour periods.

Someday

"Someday your children will be grown, and then you will miss them being small."

If you are a parent of small children, you have been on the receiving end of this particular nugget of wisdom. It has been offered by sweet old ladies in Wal-mart, by your own parents, and by your spouse. Usually its a sentiment that is supposed to make you relax when you are reaching the absolute end of your patience rope.

Truth time: I rarely feel eased or mollified or calmed or relaxed by the statement.

On the good days, when the kids are being their regular amount of wild, and someone reminds me that its only a few short years until they are grown, I think something along these lines: "Yes, I am sure I will be sad when they are grown. But they aren't grown right now, and right now I'm sad that they spilled sticky juice on my newly mopped floor."

On the days when they have long since frayed my very last nerve, my thoughts are even less forgiving. "Oh sure, I can imagine that I will miss cleaning up potty accidents, and refereeing games, and breaking up arguments, and listening to complaints about the food I prepared, and getting black eyes and fat lips from snuggling gone wrong. NOT."

I'm in the process of potty training my baby (who isn't a baby at all; he's three) And all I can think is "I can't wait till this is over and I NEVER have to potty train another child!" 

My mom reminds me not to wish his life away, but I swear, if I could, I totally WOULD wish the next month to be accomplished, so I don't have to send him to the toilet every half hour, and sit in the floor singing made up songs about potty time. I may regret it someday...but I can't imagine that now.

My two youngest are on this kick where they absolutely MUST snuggle with me in my bed before they go to sleep at night. If I lose track of time and it gets to be too late for "snuggle time" they both go into nearly uncontrollable fits of crying and begging. 

You think its sweet? Well, it might be if they didn't use the time to try to tickle me, or burrow under my quilt to make forts, accidentally elbowing me in the stomach or kicking me in the shins in the process, or beg me to tell them stories and then refuse to listen once I start.

When Clay was 6 (he's 9 now) he went through the exact same faze. He HAD TO HAVE special snuggling time at the end of every day. I was pregnant with Gabe at the time, so it was considerably more difficult to hold him close and cuddle, but he didn't care. 

He doesn't do that anymore. He outgrew snuggle time.

I am not going to lie, that does make me a little bit sad. And when I remind him that he used to like cuddling with his mom, he smiles indulgently and sits down beside me and endures my kisses and hugs...for about 15 seconds, and then he asks to play a game, or ride his bike, or watch television.

The problem isn't that all us moms of young children don't know, intellectually, that we will miss this "small kids, no sleep, nap time trumps everything, my diaper bag weighs 75 pounds, I can't get anything done EVER" faze. It's that we are honest to goodness too tired or overwhelmed to CARE.

It takes at least 5 minutes to sit down and recall the things we already miss from when our kids were even younger than they are now, and unless we lock the bathroom door while we are going pee, we don't have 5 minutes of silence in a day...EVER.

We are just treading water. We are striving, HARD, to keep it all together. And anyone who has ever been through that stage knows the way we feel, but they also know that we won't always feel that way, and that is why they remind us to slow down, and laugh at the antics, and cherish the snuggling, even if it comes with accidental fat lips or bruised shins.

But please, for the love of my sanity, don't tell me that someday I will be sad that my house is clean instead of messy, because the mess signifies the sweet little ones running around. Trying to imagine feeling that way will make my head EXPLODE.

Okay, I gotta go. My potty-training three-year-old just told me that he had a #2 accident in his pants.

Oh yeah, I can totally imagine missing this faze.

Insert all appropriate curse words here.

Remember

I haven't blogged in a while.

I've been really busy, but I'm always busy so that isn't the main reason I haven't sat down with my laptop to spill my guts to the waiting chasm of digital space.

I've been in a serious funk lately, and I've been waiting to snap out of it before blogging, because a blog post filled with my craziness that doesn't end with a little bit of Jesus is just me ranting and venting...and  that's really just code for WHINING.

So, weeks have gone by, and every time I glance at my laptop and think about sitting down to write a post, I can't do it, because the funk remains.

Maybe its because I've been doing end-of-year testing with my kids the past two weeks, and potty training my 3-year-old, and those are two of my least favorite things IN THE WORLD. After all, you would hate it too if your child took off his pants and underwear (so he didn't get them dirty) and then climbed into an empty laundry basket and peed.

Sigh. I won't go on, because then I will be venting and ranting and whining, and my Uncle Paul's voice will suddenly be echoing in my mind. "Suck it up and go, kid."

So, I keep waiting, and listening for the Lord, and looking for the moment when something new will strike my heart and snap me out of this crabby, stressed out mess of a wife and mom and friend and daughter that I am currently acting like.

And weeks have gone by.

I keep hearing songs on the radio that speak of exactly how I feel. "I'm tired, I'm worn...I know I need to lift my eyes up, but I'm too weak...my prayers are wearing thin..." But those songs always end with some Jesus...and somehow by the time I get to those parts in the songs, I'm already too tired and worn and weak to really truly HEAR Jesus.

I'm not getting anything new, Lord, and I really need something new from You. I need to hear You. I'm fraying at the edges.

And then my husband read me this passage of scripture.

"I think of God and I moan, overwhelmed with longing for His help. You don't let me sleep, I am too distressed even to pray. I think of the good old days, long since ended, when my nights were filled with joyful songs. I search my soul and think about the difference now. Has the Lord rejected me forever? Have His promises permanently failed? Has God forgotten to be kind? Has He slammed the door on His compassion? And I said "This is my fate, that the blessings of the Most High have turned to hatred."

(dude, this guy seriously needs an Uncle Paul to tell him to suck it up.) (I almost giggled at all the whining, except I feel exactly that way right now!!!) (okay, enough parentheses, here is the next verse.)

"But I will remember what the Lord has done..." (Psalm 77:3-11a, NLT)

And all of a sudden, as my husband continued to read, I was thrown back in time to the first time I really HEARD this passage of scripture 9 years ago, and I remembered the dark place I was in, and how the discipline of REMEMBERING what the Lord had done throughout my life helped me to move out of that place.

And I started to cry. Because the Lord hadn't given me anything new or fresh, but instead had reminded me of what I already knew.

REMEMBER!!!!!!!!

And the funk remains, but I am remembering that it doesn't last forever.

And my heart is tired, but I recall that He is strong.

And my emotions are frayed, but I am reminded that He will hold the threads together.

And my spirit is dry, but I cannot ever forget that HE IS THE WATER FOR MY THIRSTY SOUL.

And it isn't an immediate snapping out of anything, but instead, its a daily choice to suck up how I FEEL, and instead rely on what is TRUE, and WHO IS FAITHFUL.

"You are the God of miracles and wonders!" (Psalm 77:14)

Birthday Goodness

June 26th, 1984

That was the day I received something that everyone wants at some point in their life, but not everyone gets to have; something I was lucky enough to receive twice more in my life; something that can be a curse at times, but something that has the potential to be one of the very coolest things you will ever have.

I got a sister.

I was almost 4 years old at the time, so I don't remember much about the early stages of having a little girl sibling. I know, from stories that our parents tell us, that my brother and I were totally enamored with her, and drove our mom crazy trying to 'help' do things with and for her.

I have many, many memories of Joy once I was a little older, of course. She was my roommate my entire childhood. A few years were spent with all THREE of my sisters as my roommates, but always, always, it was me and Joy.

She was neat as a pen, and I was really messy. It drove her crazy how I would leave my many discarded outfits on the floor instead of putting them away. Once, about 5 years ago when she was visiting my house, she laughed at me for stressing about a few toys and dishes that needed to be put away. "How in the heck are you so organized and neat now? Why couldn't you have been like that when we shared a room?"

She liked to go to bed early, and I would often lay awake half the night reading a book.

She and I shared a queen sized bed that became the guest bed when company was in town (which happened a lot, because our parents are awesome and everyone wants to come visit them!) so she and I spent many a night on mattresses in the floor or the couches in the living room.

We couldn't share many clothing items as adults the way a lot of sisters do, because she was so petite, and I...well, that word has never been used to describe me...ever. I do have a few shirts that she would borrow from time to time, and vice-versa.

She LOVED birthdays, and always made a big deal out of them. She really loved celebrating her own, too, and secretly wanted tons of flowers, presents, cards, phone calls, and balloons. She was more that willing to do those things for others, probably at least in part because of how important they were to her. It was aways a competition in our family, once we had grown up and moved away, to see who could be the first to call and wish a 'happy birthday' to the one whose day it was. Joy almost always won. A lot of times she would stay up till midnight, then call at 12:01 to say happy birthday. I was quick to inform her that she better NEVER wake me up from an exhausted-mommy sleep to tell me happy birthday. She was sweet and never did, despite her raging desire to win the phone call race. But she always sent a card, and she always called, and I always felt loved. Since we didn't have a lot of money growing up, one of our presents was getting to pick our birthday supper. I always picked Fried Chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Joy always chose BLT's, macaroni and cheese, and pumpkin pie instead of cake.


Today is June 26th, 2013. It's Joy's 29th birthday. I wasn't the first one to call her today. And neither was anyone else in our family. This is the third year in a row that I haven't spoken to her on this day.

Joy is with Jesus.

I think about her a lot, but never more so than around her birthday, because knowing how important they were to her, and not being able to help her feel special on her birthday, makes me feel like a crappy sister.

Yesterday I was thinking about heaven, and wondering what the birthday party etiquette is there. And I think it must be spectacular, and so much more than I can envision, because, after all, that's how the GOD of heaven is, right?

We planted a bunch of flowers at her grave the first spring after she died. There are daffodils, and tulips, and irises, and lilies, and roses, and gladiolas. The tulips and the daffodils bloom early, and then the irises, but the lilies and the roses and the gladiolas all bloom together, and, for the last three years, they have been in full bloom, a breathtaking variety of colors and shapes, on her birthday.

So this is how I know that the party in heaven must be jamming.' Because a God who loves me, and my mom and dad, and my sisters and brother, enough to let the flowers bloom for her birthday on earth, a day she isn't even here to celebrate anymore, surely loves Joy enough to have a great party with her in heaven.

And even though I don't get to talk to her today, I can rest assured that the Lord loves her even more than I do, and He is taking care of making her day special.

But, still, 29 years of a habit is hard to undo. So, there will be balloons, and flowers, and BLT's and mac-n-cheese and pumpkin pie today. And I will look up to the sky, and speak to my Lord, and ask Him to tell her happy birthday, and that I love her, and that I'm sorry I never let her call me at midnight to win the birthday-phone-call race, and I'm sorry for leaving my clothes all over the floor all our lives, and I'm sorry for staying up all night reading when all she wanted was a dark room to sleep in, and I miss her, and she is my hero, and she was the bravest person I ever knew. And I wish I could see her face when the Lord tells her "People all over the country, and in other countries, are reading about your life, and how you served Me, and how you followed Me. You're famous, Joy."

She will blush, and her ears will turn red, and she will brush her bangs off her forehead, and say "Help me, I can't even handle this."

So, this is my birthday present to you, Joy Beth; it's from me, and Heath, and everyone who helped us along the way- I will continue to tell HIS story, and spread HIS glory, just like you would want me to. I love you so much. Thank you for being my little sister. You taught me so much about serving the Lord, and you did it without even trying.

I think the Lord will tell her, don't you? After all, He bloomed flowers on her grave just for our family, because we can't give them to her, so He gave them to us instead.

My God's goodness is breathtaking.

Calluses and Glory

I am now officially a published author.

Its pretty great, I'm not gonna lie. People ask me to sign their books, churches and organizations give me speaking engagements, and my husband bought me a brand-spanking-new laptop as a 'congratulations' gift.

Its cool, this dream come true of mine. Its everything I always thought it would be.

And yet, my life looks exactly the same as it always did.

There is poison ivy in my flower bed, and if I don't pull it, it will take over my yard.

There is a fight happening between two or more of my children at any given moment of the day.

Laundry piles sky high...always.

A scrape needs to be bandaged; a meal needs to be prepared; a friend needs encouragement; an animal needs water and affection; a child needs water and affection; a husband wants a kiss and a long conversation about the activities of the day; one thousand, seven hundred, and forty-five crises happen during that conversation that must be solved; boys engage in bathroom humor and must be reprimanded; toilets must be cleaned; dishes must be washed, dried, put away...and then within the span of a single day, must be done again; flowers need to be watered; beds made; hands washed; hair brushed; shoes hunted; diapers changed; errands run; walks taken; groceries bought; groceries put away; groceries consumed; trips to the pool, which lead to sunburns, and during which you spend twenty minutes in the nasty pool bathroom washing (in the sink by hand) swimming trunks that were used as a toilet; tongue must be bitten to hold back the words that spring to mind while hand-washing said swimming trunks.

Yes, indeed, nothing much has changed in my life.

I have a song that describes me, perfectly, and whenever someone asks me what its like to be published, and what it will be like to become famous, I sing the song in my head (after I laugh and roll my eyes and assure the person that I won't ever be famous and they are crazy)

"I feel no shame, I'm proud of where I came from. I was born and raised in the boondocks.
One thing I know, no matter where I go, I keep my heart and soul in the boondocks.

Its where I learned about liven' and where I learned about love.
Its where I learned about workin' hard.
How havin' a little is just enough.
Its where I learned about Jesus, and knowing where I stand.
You can take it or leave it.
This is me. This is who I am."

There are verses about muddy water, and honey suckle, and tin roofs, and front porches, and gravel roads, and fishin' in craw fish holes...and every single line rings true in my heart.

So, you wanna know what its like to be a published author?

Its exactly the same as not being one.

Except for the really great laptop from which I am composing this blog post.

And the really sweet emails and messages I receive from people who enjoy my book.

And the pressure of figuring out what to say to the churches and organizations I am speaking at this summer.

And the every-day trips to the post office to mail out orders.

And how good I am getting at signing my name.

And how honored I am to have the opportunity to tell this story, and spread HIS fame.

I'm a backwoods, home schooled, callused footed, country girl, through and through, and God chose to use me anyway.

You know what that means, right? It means, He will use us all, all the time, if we will let Him. No matter our upbringing, or shortcomings, or successes, or failures, or attitudes, or expectations. No matter how smart we are or aren't, no matter how much money we have or don't have, regardless of how much we know about the Bible or don't...

Despite it all, and sometimes because of it all and in it all, He is working in our lives. And He leads us to do our lives HIS way, one step at a time. We can't see the whole picture. We can't know what the span of our lives will look like.

All we can do is say "This is who I am, Lord." And then let Him use it.

Faithfulness in the every day steps, in the laundry, and the toilets, and the weeds, and the groceries, and the 20 minute conversations followed by the solving of 1,745 crises.

That's all He is asking of us.

Take a deep breath, and let Him lift up your head, (Psalm 3:3) and then take a step, and then take the next one...and your life, and my life, will be famous for HIS glory.

Callused feet and all.