The Doorbell

I have a love/hate relationship with my doorbell. (and with desserts, and with play dough, and with Spanks, and with shoes, and with exercise equipment...)

It can't help but be a little bit obnoxious, that 'ding dong' sound that echoes through the whole house. No matter what I'm doing, it's rarely convenient to stop long enough to walk down the hall and answer the door.

Sometimes its a surprise visit from a welcomed friend or family member. Or the arrival of something I ordered online. Or girl scouts delivering the cookies I purchased. Or a flower delivery man. Those are the times when I love my doorbell. (Although, if those beloved friends or family members arrive when I'm in my pajamas or the house is trashed, they may be a little less beloved, and if the clothes I ordered online don't fit, I may love myself a little less, and if the girl scout cookies get delivered after I started a diet, I may love all girl scouts a little less, and if the flowers make me sneeze...you get the point)

But, on more than one occasion its been a (gulp) policeman standing on my porch as the ding-dong sounds filled my house. There have been Jehovah's Witnesses, there have been Repo companies, there have been grouchy mail carriers. Once it was our super sweet next door neighbor, and when I opened the door she was standing on the porch holding my two-year-old son's hand, asking me if I knew he was out front. DOORBELL HATRED.

And, as a side note, no matter how happy I am to see anyone or anything, I will ALWAYS hate my doorbell and whoever rang it if they happen to push the button between the hours of 1-4 p.m., when my boys are napping. I strongly urge you never to do that. Strongly.

The worst, though, was the day when the mail man delivered a crate, taped and wrapped, that I had to sign for. Curiously oblivious, I ripped off the tape and bubble wrapping to discover a plainly wrapped package with the return address of "US Embassy, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia."

My sister's ashes, delivered to my door. A package requiring my signature. As if it were any other day, any other ring of that hateful button.

It's really hard to remember that day, that feeling, and still believe that the Lord wastes nothing, not even, especially not, our pain.

But today...today I signed for another package. Today I got a delivery that may never, ever, be topped on the list of wonderful things on the other side of my door.

Today my book arrived, the book I wrote to honor my sister's life and memory. Today I stood outside in my driveway staring at it, crying, with my kids surrounding me and with friends crying and taking pictures.

Today the Lord's promise that He doesn't waste our pain, and He redeems everything, even the ashes, was made evident in my life.

One small girl who's life ended so abruptly, one breathtakingly painful box filled with ashes, one ring of the doorbell that I will never forget.

And then, 25 boxes, 1,000 books, one breathtakingly beautiful life, for everyone to read, for everyone to know about.

The Lord gives. The Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

The irony of my doorbell moments tumbles around inside me as I write. Its wrapped up in the irony of my sister's life. She wasn't tall, or substantial, or outgoing. She wasn't the kind of person who made an entrance in a room. And yet, people who never knew her...KNOW HER.

Because someone small, who in willing to let God use them, can become a spiritual giant- a catalyst to spur us all into walking out the Lord's steps for our lives.

The pain of ashes has become the beauty of redemption. My Beloved Savior took my pain, and gave me His promise that He restores all, in His time, in His way.

I pray that every single time I hear the doorbell ring for the rest of my life, I will remember this truth.

Nothing is wasted.

The Moment of Truth...almost

My book is being released on Friday!!!! I can't tell you how excited, and overwhelmed, and thankful, and a little bit sad, I am feeling. My friends have said it seems like the whole process has gone quickly. After all, I finished the rough draft August 1st, 2012, and the finished book is being released May 30th, 2013. But to me it seems time has been dragging its feet these past months, and 'wait' and 'patience' have become my new least favorite words.

 

But, the wait is almost over!!!! The anticipation is killing me, and because I hate to be alone in my agony, I have decided to share the first few pages with you, in the hopes of having some miserable company!!!

 

So, without further ado, I give you the prologue of "His Life For Mine."

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

It was quiet in Joy’s room, which should have been an

indication that something unusual was about to happen. It
was never quiet here. The streets of Kuala Lumpur,
Malaysia were always filled with people, filled with life.
And the children’s home, where she lived and served, was
never completely quiet, even in the middle of the night.
How could it be, with 27 children living within the walls?
She loved the hustle and bustle; she loved the crowds and,
most of all, she loved the children.

Briefly, she wondered where they were. Was there an

outing she had forgotten about? Were they all, miraculously,
sleeping at the same time in the middle of the day?
Most days, it was loud and wild, even when it was supposed
to be quiet. It was something she had grown up with, something
she had gotten used to and come to love. She hardly
missed the peace and quiet. She didn’t even notice its
absence most days. The noise was familiar.

Today, though, in this moment, a sudden feeling of

peace filled the room. It was something in the air, something
not quite discernible. The feeling caused all of
creation, it seemed, to collectively draw in a breath and
pause.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the door
was open, and she turned toward it. A gasp lodged in her
throat. Light, so bright it was almost blinding, pierced the
room. She blinked, blinked again, and after her eyes had
adjusted, blinked once more. What she was seeing couldn’t
be real, but the sudden racing of her heart told her it
mustn’t be ignored.

There was an angel standing in her doorway. Saying it

out loud would have made her laugh, because it was so
impossible. And, yet, it didn’t really seem that surprising.
After all, there was no sound. The whole world was
holding its breath, waiting for something to happen, and
this must be it. She wasn’t afraid. She couldn’t imagine
what fear felt like, in that moment. The angel was smiling
at her, and, from her place on the bed, she smiled back.

“Hello, Joy,” he said, in a voice that was quiet, like the

room, and, yet, mighty, like thunder. “Will you come with
me? I have things I want to show you.”

Was an angel really asking her to come with him?

Where were they going? When would they be coming
back?

This must be a dream. The city was still holding its

breath, after all, and a city full of people couldn’t, actually,
stop breathing, all at the same time. But even if it was a
dream, she wanted to see what the angel had to show her.

She didn’t need to ask any of her questions.

She stood up, and even that seemed to happen in slow
motion. It felt more like she was swimming than walking,
and it took her a minute to reach the doorway. When she
drew near to the angel’s side, something gave her pause.

She turned back toward the room, uncertain why she hesitated.

Her brow drew together in a split second of confusion,
but she felt a touch on her hand. She turned toward
the angel, and saw him smiling again. “Will you come with me?”

It was the same question as before, with the same

unimaginable peace and power flowing from his lips. Her
hand was warmed by his touch, and the warmth seemed to
spread through her whole body.

For some reason, as she stood there, tears filled her

eyes. Maybe it was because, in a dream, a person always
cried in unexpected places. Maybe it was because she was
still a little unsure of what was to come. Maybe it was the
overwhelming calm, peace, and love that she could feel
when this messenger from heaven took her hand. She
didn’t know why she wanted to cry, but she did know that
she wanted to be wherever the Lord wanted her. If God
had sent her an angel — an angel who wanted to take her
somewhere — then, there was only one right answer.

She drew in a breath, an act that seemed to take several
heartbeats, and she nodded her head.

“Yes, I will go with you.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, the room around

her faded away, and a small Florida home came into view.
This time she gasped aloud, bracing herself for a journey
unlike anything she could imagine.
******

Check Facebook and my website (charitylmartin.com) for more info starting on Friday, May 30th!!!
 

Beach Bums

The beach is in my blood.

Maybe its because I was born in Florida and lived the majority of my childhood in South Carolina.

Maybe its because I am partial to suntans.

Maybe its because I love the sticky salt water feeling that my skin gets when I've been pounded by sandy waves all day...nope, its not that one.

Anyway, whatever the reason, I can literally FEEL myself relaxing when the air starts to smell salty, and the palm trees appear, and the dirt becomes sand.

Growing up, we only lived 2 hours from the ocean, and we would travel there at least half a dozen times per summer. Mom would pack a huge cooler full of food and drinks, and we would all pack our towels, and flip flops, and boogie boards, and sunscreen we had no intention of applying...and we'd pile into our van and laugh and talk excitedly about the day ahead.

Eight to ten hours later we would pile back into the van, significantly less chipper, significantly dirtier, and significantly more RED than we started out. We would sit as still as possible in an attempt to keep the sand in our swimsuits from rubbing against our burnt flesh, and Daddy would drive home faster than he drove on the way down (and that's saying something!) because nothing sounded better than getting out of the sandy suits and applying lots and lots of aloe.

Ah, yes, the lovely, fond memories of long days on the beach.

When I grew up and got married (to a man from the landlocked state of Indiana) I was shocked to learn that not everyone feels the way I do about the ocean. My husband HATES the salt water, and the sand, and while I may get a sunburn the first day that turns nice and brown as the week wears on, he turns into a LOBSTER, and then peels for weeks.

The first time we went to the beach after we were married, I was prepared to spend the day, and he told me after TWO HOURS that he was ready to head home.

The worst part is, I fear my children have inherited some of his non-beach blood.

They fuss about the sand in their suits. The boys complain that their trunks are chaffing their thighs. And they are all four blond headed, which means -you guessed it- LOBSTER FEST!!

What is the world coming to when kids would rather play in the pool than the ocean? It's just not right, I tell you!

Although, I am not gonna lie, being able to wash off the sand and the salt in a pool before heading home is a pretty spectacular step up in my life. And being able to walk up the beach to the house we are staying in and grab a snack is a far cry better than dragging a giant, HEAVY cooler through the scorching hot sand.

I spent 4 days at the beach this past week with several members of my family, including my kids and my sister and her kids. We had a wonderful time. Well...mostly.

My sister's kids have apparently inherited the same beach-tolerating attitude. When they all started to fuss about the sand, or the salt, or the chaffing, Sarah and I would look at each other in horror.

"We just got here," one of us would say. "How can we leave before we are sun burnt and starving? And before sand has lodged in our ears and armpits and belly buttons? It can't be a day at the beach without spending a DAY AT THE BEACH."

But, oh how annoying are the cries of miserable, wimpy children.

And so we would spend a few hours on the sand, relaxing and tanning, and then we would haul everyone to the pool.

Can I just say that it is much less subtle when your kid pees in the pool than it is when they pee in the ocean...especially when there are SEVEN children doing it.

And it is much harder to acquire a decent tan when you are constantly monitoring your little ones proximity to the deep end of the pool than when you are checking to see if they are wading in the waves rather than staring at them in terror.

In other words, taking our seven children to the ocean was really fun for my sister and me. Taking them to the pool turned us into stupid-y moms.

At one point all of them were totally naked beside the pool. All of them peed in the pool. And every time one of them asked us for something, we said "You'll have to wait, I have 5 more minutes of tanning on this side."

I'm not really sure how to solve this particular life dilemma. My sister and I did come up with what we considered the perfect solution, until I pitched it to my husband.

"Next time we go to the beach, you guys can take the kids to the pool when they get cranky, and my sister and I will sit ocean-side for the rest of the day. It's a win/win situation." And really, I think it is a valid suggestion. He won't get nearly as burnt, and the kids will get their clean, chlorinated water time in, and I will get to tan on the beach all day. I was pretty excited about sharing this brilliant plan.

The words I could read going through him mind are not repeatable.

Apparently my beach-tolerating husband does NOT tolerate babysitting while I get a tan.

So, plan B is this: Buy the boys surfer trunks that are skin tight and don't chaff. Get a house on the beach, with a pool, and pack lots of sunscreen. Convince myself that a couple hours on the beach is plenty, and that I don't really need a perfectly proportioned tan. Teach all kids to pee discreetly in the pool and NOT announce it to everyone. Make 3 year old learn to swim so I don't have to watch him like a hawk.

Jeez. It sounds a little easier to haul that heavy cooler through the sand and ride home sun burnt and covered in salt.

Sigh...

Cranky Pity Parties

I'm cranky today, and my husband says its never a good idea to blog when I'm cranky. The oh-so-unreliable filter between my brain and my mouth...err...fingers...slips off entirely when I'm channeling Oscar the Grouch.

The pity party started early. I rolled out of bed with my muscles screaming at me that I worked TOO hard yesterday. (Apparently yard work uses different muscles than any of my workout videos...Oh, who the heck am I kidding? Those workout videos have been using the muscles it takes me to DUST them for at least a month, and that's it) I shuffled into the kitchen, started the coffee...and then noticed the laundry basket sitting in the hall, reminding me that I had started on that particularly distasteful project but hadn't finished it, and if I put it off any longer, I wouldn't have any jeans to wear.

The gathering of the rest of the laundry inspired further fuming (which was kicked off when I bent down to pick up some random socks, dropped in the floor by a blond little boy, and my back yelled and my legs howled and my arms screeched) followed by teeth grinding and silent ranting at the injustice of my whole entire LIFE. (Don't judge me, this was all pre-7 a.m. and pre-coffee.)

By the time my husband walked by me into the laundry room to snag one of his clean, wrinkle-free dress shirts from the hanger...I had only finished half of my first cup of coffee, and it had yet to calm my morning grouchiness.

"Man, it must be nice to just ALWAYS have clean clothes to wear when you need them, without having to wash them yourself," I muttered. "And food to eat when you're hungry, and a clean toilet to sit your butt on, and a hall to walk down without wading through toys or sticking to the crap spilled on the floor."

He walked past me with an indulgent smile, and wisely retreated to the other end of the house, not to be seen again until enough time had passed for the caffeine to begin soaking into my blood.

But this is a valid point of self-pity/woe-is-me syndrome. No one ever opens their underwear drawer and thinks "I love my mom for always washing my Superhero boxers for me." And no one walks into the kitchen, looking for a drink, and thanks me for washing all the cups for them, or going to the store to buy the juice they are pouring into the clean cups. And no one wonders how there is plenty of toilet paper on the holder, or how their beds magically go from messy to neatly smoothed, or how the pantry is stocked with their favorite kinds of cereal.

And none of my kids, while searching for which cartoon to watch, stop and think "I'm so glad my mom taught me how to read so I can know which show is which."

Motherhood is a largely thankless job.

One thing it will do is BEAT the selfishness out of you, that's for sure.

When I ask the kids to help me clean up a certain mess, one of them will inevitably say "But I am not the one who made this mess," to which I will reply (in carefully measured tones that do not give away the full weight of my desire to SMACK them on top of their blond heads) "Well, do you know how many dishes I wash that I haven't dirtied? Or how many loads of laundry? Or how may toilets? Clean this up because you LOVE me, and want to help me." ("And because if you don't I'm gonna knock you into next week" ...usually the brain-to-mouth filter catches that part...usually)

So, you get it, the day started grumpy. Two cups of coffee later, it was still a bit of a grouch-fest. And the kids are SO READY for summer break that school time was equally grumpy for them and for me. (Because, after coffee, my best defense against being grouchy is TWIZZLERS, and we are out!)

To add insult to injury, I was moving a wooden shelf, and got a REALLY big splinter. It might be the largest splinter I've ever had. I pulled it out, but a sliver of it remained in my thumb, and I had to wait for it to stop bleeding profusely so I could stab a needle into the giant hole and dig out the rest of it.

Holy STUPID, that hurt.

So now I only have nine functional fingers, ZERO fully functioning muscles, 2 loads of laundry that need to be folded, one load that needs to be dried, and two loads still waiting to wash. Supper needs to be cooked, and my workout videos need to be dusted.

Poor, poor, pitiful me.

Except for one thing. Earlier today, for absolutely no reason whatsoever, all four of my children crowded around me and said "Group hug!" And suddenly I was squeezed on all sides by their little arms. And their sweet little heads were resting against my side, and my hip, and my back, and my legs.

And it turns out motherhood isn't so thankless after all.

I'm pretty sure the Lord put them up to that. He knows just the right buttons to push.

There's a verse I walk past on my wall every day, and today I stopped for a second and read it.

"If anyone is thirsty, let him (or her) come to Me and I will give them something to drink." (John 7:37)

So, the laundry will have to wait, and the supper, and the dusting, because I am THIRSTY, and I know where I will get something to drink...its at His feet.

The Crazy and the Calm

Its been the kind of week where I haven't had 5 seconds to rub together.

The kind of week where my train of thought is interrupted so often that its no longer a train...

The kind of week where you just try and get through...and the most depressing part is it's only Tuesday.

There aren't many moments within this kind of week (and you all know exactly what I'm talking about, because we all have weeks like this) where it is quiet long enough for me to take a deep breath, much less spend time with the Lord. Its more like a 20 second bathroom break that is combined with a "Jesus, help me. I'm losing it. Help me," prayer time.

Here are a few of the highlights:

1. Nate ate the fortune inside his fortune cookie...he said he didn't do it on purpose, but I swear he knows those things have papers inside them, and he was trying to get a laugh.

2. I couldn't figure out how to open the hood of my van so I could help my best friend jump her car. I literally had to get out the owner's manual (after several moments looking for it) to find out where the lever was.

3. I went into the half bathroom (for my daily 20 second prayer time) and stepped onto the rug...and it was soaked. For several long moments I was convinced I had stepped into the contents of an overflowed toilet. Thankfully it was just a leak in the flush tank, so the water I was standing in, and then mopping up, was clean. Still, that leak put the most-used-bathroom in our house out of commission for a few days. You want to see boys running FAST, watch them when they realize they have to make it all the way to the other side of the house before they pee their pants.

4. I ran a bath for the boys the other night...and Gabe climbed into the full tub of perfectly clean water...and peed.

5. Several splinters required a needle. Enough said.

6. Laundry. (insert all appropriate curse words here)

7. I offered to give away as many of my children as my sister was willing to take. She said she would only take them in trade...and she had a husband she was willing to hand over...but husbands are every bit as difficult as kids, maybe more so...and we were mostly just venting anyway.

8. As I listened to my second grader and kindergartner read, I told myself over and over "It'll get better. Everyone says, when they hit 3rd grade, the reading gets better. Just breathe, it gets better."

9. My daughter, who is 11, lost her very last baby tooth.

10. I had a moment of total silence, which lasted all of 7 seconds, and I heard the Lord speaking to me. He reminded me that I was looking forward to the end of so many things about this stage of my life, and I was forgetting to see the joy, and the magnificence, in it.

Because Nate may eat paper in order to elicit a flabbergasted reaction from me, but he also climbs onto my bed every nights and tells me he loves me and he thinks I'm beautiful. And he may not always do that, so I should be thankful for those moments.

And Gabe pees in perfectly good bath water, but he also says "Mommy, guess what? I love you and I think you're cute." And he might not always.

And Clay screams his head off when I'm digging out his splinters (seriously, people passing by our house will think I am pulling out his fingernails with pliers.) and he reads at the speed of SNAIL, but he makes me laugh every single day with his funny personality, and when he's grown up I will miss that.

And Faith might say she is doing laundry, but actually just throws dirty clothes into the washer and then walks out of the room and leaves them for me to take care of, but she also talks to me like we are friends, and she thinks I'm cool, and she seeks my advice. And she might not do that for a season...a season that is coming in the not-so-distant future.

So, before I descend back into the abyss of wrestling matches, hide-and-seek chases, urine infested bath water, digestible paper, dirty clothes, leaking toilets, tired feet, unshaven legs, un-brushed teeth, and all the rest that drowns out all attempts at coherent thought, I will say this:

Every stage is filled with insanity, and every stage is filled with beauty. And if we focus too much on one, we will miss the other. I for one would rather miss the insanity than miss the beauty.

Take a breath. It only has to be a second. Breathe in His presence. See the beauty.

It's enough for this moment, Lord. Just enough.

Remind me again in a minute.

...Fear Not...

You know how they say that you pass things down to your kids? Not just green eyes or saddle bags or dramatic personalities or a love for music. Those things are okay. (well, all but the saddle bags, but there's nothing I can do about it. I inherited them, and my daughter will too, poor girl.) I'm talking about the things we wish we DIDN'T pass down- like sassy, smart mouths, and the stress switch that goes from zero to 500 in a heartbeat, and the ability to LIE with a straight face.

And fear. I have struggled with it since I was a girl. I remember listening to one of my favorite records (Charity Church Mouse and Psalty The Singing Songbook...and it was an ACTUAL record, too) and getting SO scared when Risky Rat tricked Charity Church Mouse into signing a contract with him, even though it was a dream, that I had to go and sleep in my parents room.

And later, I would turn on all the lights on my way to and from the bathroom at night, because the light lessened the fear of monsters and robbers. And I can remember even as a 10, 11, and 12 year old, sneaking into my parents room and asking my dad to pray for me, because I was scared and couldn't sleep. In fact, I have called my Dad to pray for me because I was scared more than once since I've been grown.

I truly, truly wish I could have somehow kept from passing along this particular trait to my kids. I hate it when they are afraid. Seeing the terror in their eyes hurts my heart.

I know its unfounded fear, of course. There aren't monsters or robbers waiting for them upstairs who will magically disappear if I walk up with them and turn on the lights as we go. But I also know, because I have experienced it, that the fear doesn't hear the rationale. It fills you with panic, and your heart races, and you wonder how you'll catch the next breath, and in a last ditch effort, you run as fast as you can to the person who isn't afraid, because they can protect you.

My poor little Gabe, who is 3, has recently started waking up in the middle of a dead sleep, crying and shaking, saying there are monsters or bad guys in his room, and he's scared. Not only when he's sleeping, either. Yesterday he came careening down the hall and launched into my arms in the middle of the afternoon, telling me that a bad monster was chasing him.

Over the last several weeks, as he would wake up screaming, I would do what my dad always did when I woke him from a dead sleep. I would pray. "Lord, I ask that You would settle Gabe's heart, and that You would be with him, and remind him that he doesn't have to be afraid, because You are here. Amen."

But yesterday, all in a flash, I remembered something that changed me as a girl. I remembered the first time I decided I would pray for myself. I was terrified about something (I can't even remember what) and I said, out loud, with my voice trembling, "I don't have to be afraid, because the Lord is with me. And Jesus lives IN me, and His angels protect me. So why should I be afraid?"

And just saying it myself calmed my heart. Something about His name, and my lips using it with authority, made the fear shrink.

I've done that for years, every time fear rises in my heart. I did it today, when I was trying to make a decision that I was afraid wouldn't be the right one. Out loud, I said, "Jesus. Help me. I'm afraid. Be with me." And my heart calmed, and my hands stopped shaking quite so badly.

Yesterday, when Gabe bolted into the room in terror, I remembered that first time I took charge of the fear, and I pulled him close to me, and I said, "Gabe, remember what Mommy told you? Jesus lives in our home. And His angels protect you all the time. Monsters can't get you. So you go tell the monster that, okay?"

And my sweet little baby set his lips, and drew his brows together, and turned. He looked down the hall, and he pointed his finger. And he said "Monster, you can't get me. Jesus and angels take care of me. Go away!"

And I cried.

Because his monster is fear, and he looked it in the face and told it to go. I'm glad he did that, because it reminded me to do it too. And I needed the reminder today.

Every time my hands shake and my heart races, and every time the dark seems thick enough to suffocate me, I am going to remember those curls bouncing on his head as he stomped his foot and pointed his finger at Fear...and told it he knew Who was with him.

"The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid?" Psalm 27:1

Old Yeller

"Old Yeller" is one of the worst movies EVER.

Its right up there with "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "E.T." and "Little Women" and a handful of other movies I can remember (with shocking clarity) SOBBING while watching as a kid. (Side note- who makes horrifyingly sad movies and targets kids with them? Sadistic, stupid, terrible people, that's who)

I watched Old Yeller as a kid, and I remember thinking, after I had finished crying and crying and crying, that I would NEVER WATCH THAT STUPID MOVIE EVER AGAIN.

And I held to that for many, many years.

And then my brother let his kids watch it, and they told my kids about how awesome it was...and my kids began begging me to get it.

"NO!" I responded. "That is the worst movie in the world!"

"WHY???" they pleaded. Well, I didn't want to spoil the movie for them, and I even managed to convince myself it wasn't as bad as I remembered...and I gave in and broke my boycott.

Big mistake.

We laid on my bed and watched it (because my room is the only place with a VHS player, and I borrowed my mom's VHS copy of the world's stupidest movie, because I didn't own it. (DUH)) and by the time the wolf and Old Yeller were battling it out, and the mother was screaming "Travis!!! Get your GUN!" I was screaming too, and covering my eyes and saying (out loud to my kids who were in rapt attention ) "this is a stupid movie!!! I can't believe I let you talk me into this!"

And another thing- what kind of dumb family builds a huge fire when they KNOW that rabies is on the loose? And why were they dumb enough to FORGET to bring their gun? Isn't the number one rule of the wide open plains "Always have a gun with you?" I have never lived in the untamed wilderness, but even I know that rule.

Stupid movie. (I guess this is as good a place as any to apologize for all the times the word 'stupid' appears in this post. Also, to give you a spoiler alert...I will be ranting about the end of this movie, so if you haven' seen it...well, actually, I highly recommend that you never do, and so the spoiler doesn't matter)

Right, so of COURSE Old Yeller comes to the rescue of the stupid family. He fights off the wolf, and the mother screams "Travis! Bring your gun!" and Travis brings his gun, and moments of terror follow where the growling and snapping and fighting can be heard, and Travis waits for just the right shot so he doesn't kill his beloved dog...and then BANG! The wolf is slain, and Old Yeller is alive, albeit covered in blood and dirt and bite marks.

And then the mother breaks the potentially horrible news to Travis. "That wolf was MAD." Meaning Old Yeller just got into a death match with a rabid animal.

Travis is optimistic. After all, Old Yeller has survived a number of close scrapes so far in the movie. But he agrees to pin his dearly loved dog up in a pen until they can be sure he hasn't contracted the deadly disease through any of the numerous puncture wounds inflicted by the wolf.

Oh yes, you know where this is heading. After several days of Yeller looking just fine, and Travis growing more and more sure that things will turn out right, he goes to the pen to feed his dog, only to find Yeller growling and snapping and foaming at the mouth and trying to attack the door of the pen where Travis is standing.

And once again, Travis gets his gun.

See what I mean? STUPID movie.

As a kid, I cried and cried over the tragedy of Travis having to kill his beloved dog. I related to the family who had lost their pet (who was really more than a pet).

But as an adult, I had a different reaction.

I found myself relating to Old Yeller.

I, too, am willing to lay down my life for my family. I would fight off a rabid wolf for them (In fact, I do that every day. The rabid wolf's name is LAUNDRY) and I am frequently locked in a pen (otherwise known as my house) against my will.

Old Yeller loved Travis, but the rabies made him MAD.

I think maybe I have rabies.

Because sometimes I find myself snarling and baring my teeth at the people I love most in the world.

The argument can be made that it wasn't Old Yeller's fault. The family was stupid, and careless, and Old Yeller was just doing what all good dogs are supposed to do. He protected his family, and then they locked him in a pen and SHOT HIM.

The other day we were driving down the road and Nate said "Mom, here, my gum is out of taste" and tried to hand me his ABC gum WHILE I WAS DRIVING. He dropped it, because I couldn't reach back and get it while safely operating the vehicle, and he couldn't find where it had fallen...and my rabies jumped to the surface.

"Nate! Are you kidding me? Its almost summer, and that gum is going to get all sticky and melted, and someone will step in it, and ruin their shoes and our van. You will find it, or I will never give you gum again!!!"

And in their minds, my family was thinking "Travis, get your GUN!"

Yes, I still think Old Yeller is the world's stupidest movie.

But, sometimes, rabid animals (and mothers) need to be SHOT.

Thank goodness my own personal rabies has an antidote. Several, in fact. My kids know that when I bury my head in my hands and start praying out loud, they better run for the hills, because the fangs are about to come out. Praying is a good antidote for my MADNESS.

As is laughter. Being quick to laugh at the crazy antics of my wild bunch keeps my foaming mouth at bay.

Reminding myself of the big picture helps too. "You love them, you don't want to rip them to shreds. This is a small thing. They can't help it they built a huge fire, forgot their gun, and didn't see the rabid wolf until it tried to attack them. You love these people. You will protect them and lay down your life for them, however absurd they are acting!"

Time with fellow Old Yeller's (otherwise known as my sister and my friends(sorry for calling all of you potentially rabid dogs)) also relieves my itch to snarl and snap. Something about baring my urge to bare my teeth makes the urge lessen slightly.

So, to recap: Old Yeller is a stupid movie that should never be watched-EVER. Sometimes I act like Old Yeller and need to be shot. My friends and my sister have been compared to rabid dogs. Praying helps me not kill the people I love.

On that note, the rabid wolf of laundry is howling and must be fought off, however lethal the results will be for me. Pretty sure rubber gloves and puncture proof suits are needed before I attack the basket in the boys room.

Snarl. Growl. Snap.

"Travis, get your gun!"