I've known a few. First of all let's see what kind of descriptive definition of anus I can actually find...
"the opening at the lower end of the alimentary canal, through which the solid refuse of digestion is excreted." Thank you, dictionary.com.
I have to put first my least favorite kind of butthole - liars. Nothing makes me more angry than dishonesty. It's just so uncalled for. These people are at the very lowest end of the alimentary canal... I'm talking the last part the solid refuse sees before splashdown. The part that gets the lovely job of sitting nose to nose with the toilet water. The part that pretty much becomes a hemorrhoid in the event that they should occur.
Unfortunately I've dealt with these wrinkled sphincters before and I don't like it. Don't like it a bit.
There are all different kinds of liars - white liars, fish-story liars, easy-way-out liars, habitual liars, character liars, compulsive liars, and a handful of other kinds, but these are the ones on the tip of my brain.
White liars are viewed by the general consensus as "not so bad." They stretch the truth just enough to squeak by something they need to squeak by. The guy who tells his boss something is finished when it's really not, but will be by the time the boss actually sees it... the kid who tells her mom that her homework is finished when she really means she'll finish it under a blanket with a flashlight when she's supposed to be in bed... the woman who fudges her weight at the DMV... these are all white liars.
Guess what... it's still a lie.
Fish-story liars like to stretch the truth for the sake of the story. As in, "That fish I caught was a foot long!" and then in the next telling, "That fish I caught was a foot and a half long!" and then in the next telling, "That fish I caught was at least 3 feet long!" Fish-story lying is not just for your grandpa though. How about, "When I told Marge what June had said, she was livid!" when, in all actuality, June was just a little miffed and was totally over it by the time the conversation was over.
Guess what... still a lie.
Easy-way-out liars are fun to deal with. Kids a lot of time slip into this little mistake, but adults are just as capable. It's a lot easier to just blame somebody else rather than take the heat yourself, after all. Habitual and compulsive liars are downright entertaining at times, but still just as maddening.
I guess the type of liar that bothers me most, though, is the character liar. The person who claims to be one thing or a number of things and doesn't bother living up to the very standards they've placed for themselves by claiming whatever slot in society they have. They soon tear down their character and, many times, completely degrade whatever position they might have once hoped to hold.
3.17.2008
1.26.2008
depression
In a word: sucky.
After losing my opportunity at a night out to myself (or a night anywhere to myself), I came home, put away some laundry, cleaned up some dishes, fixed cereal for Scotty, fixed coffee for David, and finished up several other things just in time for Scotty to be hungry and need to nurse. While I was doing all those previous things - the things I do every day - I listened to the washing machine in the next room rock and rattle like it was going to come through the wall. It's off balance, so they say, and it used to bug the living daylights out of me, but tonight it was almost comforting. Maybe for the same reason that anytime I've been in the car by myself lately, I've cranked the radio up to an almost painful volume... or for the same reason I prefer to cry in the shower to anywhere else. Comfort in cover-ups. Chaotic noise camouflages the noise in my mind and tears aren't as obvious in the shower. It makes it all easier to deny.
Or maybe I like listening to the washing machine because I feel a common bond with it. After all, I'm a little off balance these days, too. It did what it was supposed to do, the same thing day in and day out, for a long time without the slightest problem, but then one day for no particular reason, it started screwing up. Most people who come into the house when it's running can tell something's wrong with it, but don't say anything out of politeness. A few people offer suggestions to fix the problem, telling me how simple it is to repair, but are at a loss when I tell them I've tried all their ideas. So it continues to run, continues to do what's expected of it, through the chaos and noise. Surely someone could take it apart and find the problem, but hey, as long as it's still doing what it's supposed to do, what difference does it make if something's a little off. It's still getting the job done, after all.
How do I always come back around to laundry?
I don't like being a washing machine. I certainly don't like being an off-balance washing machine, but for some reason I can't help it. I've learned the hard way many times over that things never turn out the way I expect they will, but I really, really wanted motherhood to turn out remotely like I expected. It feels so thankless and anonymous. I do so much and just feel used, used, used... like even my body and mind are at everybody's disposal but my own.
I love Scotty so much and don't begrudge the things he demands of me, but I'm so full of dark negativity and indifference toward everything else... things I love, people I love, activities I love. None of it seems worth the trouble anymore.
I've never been deep under water, but I would imagine that if you went deep enough you wouldn't be able to see the sun over the surface anymore. That's what I feel like... like incredible pressure of complete and suffocating darkness is on all sides and I'm struggling to find the light I know but can't even see anymore.
I'm tired of struggling.
After losing my opportunity at a night out to myself (or a night anywhere to myself), I came home, put away some laundry, cleaned up some dishes, fixed cereal for Scotty, fixed coffee for David, and finished up several other things just in time for Scotty to be hungry and need to nurse. While I was doing all those previous things - the things I do every day - I listened to the washing machine in the next room rock and rattle like it was going to come through the wall. It's off balance, so they say, and it used to bug the living daylights out of me, but tonight it was almost comforting. Maybe for the same reason that anytime I've been in the car by myself lately, I've cranked the radio up to an almost painful volume... or for the same reason I prefer to cry in the shower to anywhere else. Comfort in cover-ups. Chaotic noise camouflages the noise in my mind and tears aren't as obvious in the shower. It makes it all easier to deny.
Or maybe I like listening to the washing machine because I feel a common bond with it. After all, I'm a little off balance these days, too. It did what it was supposed to do, the same thing day in and day out, for a long time without the slightest problem, but then one day for no particular reason, it started screwing up. Most people who come into the house when it's running can tell something's wrong with it, but don't say anything out of politeness. A few people offer suggestions to fix the problem, telling me how simple it is to repair, but are at a loss when I tell them I've tried all their ideas. So it continues to run, continues to do what's expected of it, through the chaos and noise. Surely someone could take it apart and find the problem, but hey, as long as it's still doing what it's supposed to do, what difference does it make if something's a little off. It's still getting the job done, after all.
How do I always come back around to laundry?
I don't like being a washing machine. I certainly don't like being an off-balance washing machine, but for some reason I can't help it. I've learned the hard way many times over that things never turn out the way I expect they will, but I really, really wanted motherhood to turn out remotely like I expected. It feels so thankless and anonymous. I do so much and just feel used, used, used... like even my body and mind are at everybody's disposal but my own.
I love Scotty so much and don't begrudge the things he demands of me, but I'm so full of dark negativity and indifference toward everything else... things I love, people I love, activities I love. None of it seems worth the trouble anymore.
I've never been deep under water, but I would imagine that if you went deep enough you wouldn't be able to see the sun over the surface anymore. That's what I feel like... like incredible pressure of complete and suffocating darkness is on all sides and I'm struggling to find the light I know but can't even see anymore.
I'm tired of struggling.
10.22.2007
pregnancy
I've so far tried to stay away from the obvious topic "of the hour" in this particular blog, but it's what's on my mind tonight (as if that's somehow different from any other night), so I thought I might as well address it.
Overall, I have enjoyed being pregnant as I always thought I would; although, it's been quite different from how I had it figured all along. Big surprise. You would think I'd learn to actually NOT trust what I expect or assume since it becomes increasingly more obvious to me that I am, 9 times out of 10, wrong.
One of my assumptions was that being a naturally emotional person, I would be a dynamically more emotional pregnant person. I was wrong. Much to David's joy and amazement, I have only had 2 or 3 major melt downs during pregnancy. That would be a fairly outstanding record for me during a "normal" nine month period. I also figured that I would be considerably weepy and sentimental about the whole idea of impending motherhood, but again I was wrong. Don't misunderstand me... I'm absolutely overjoyed and thrilled about having a child, but I haven't waxed poetic on the topic even once. Again, something pretty new and different for an old poet/beatnik wannabe (don't judge me too harshly; I've had a very lengthy awkward stage and it's possible that I may finally be emerging).
So besides a couple of significant mental/emotional changes, what else has happened to me in the past months?
My interests have changed. I've always liked to go to Barnes & Noble, get a nice tea, and sit down with a magazine. My preference in magazines used to consist of Cosmopolitan, Star, Us Weekly, or something else equally disgusting and brainless. I still like the tea, of course (although not as often because of the caffeine), but my magazine choice has changed considerably. I forget the names of the magazines (another pregnancy side effect), but all the topics of interest are the same. What's swelling, stretching, sagging, leaking, retaining, growing, contracting, tearing, or otherwise protruding this month?
About the absent mindedness. David randomly called me into the kitchen this afternoon to "look at something in the refrigerator." I had explained to him earlier that upon finding that we were out of spaghetti sauce I had concocted my own. What he wanted me to see in the refrigerator was a half-full jar of spaghetti sauce sitting at 12 o'clock in plain sight right in front of the orange juice. I did the same thing earlier this week with a hair clippy, which I found being the only object sitting in the middle of my empty bathroom counter top after proclaiming that it was nowhere to be found.
I've found the later stages of pregnancy to be the most frustrating at least when it comes to clothing choices. After recycling the same 3 dresses for Sundays and Wednesday nights about 6 weeks running, I decided to revert back to some of the nice blouses I'd all but forgotten. No dice. None of them fit anymore! I'm not THAT much bigger am I? I have less than 2 months to go and had to go shopping for more clothes yesterday. I tried on several items only to find that, yes, I do look like a hippopotamus. A hippopotamus who no longer has ankles. A hippopotamus who should maybe just invest in a good muu-muu or a Sir Edmund Hillary tent.
But really, folks...
The maternity clothes are getting to be a nuisance, the swollen ankles are a pain, the absent mindedness is making me feel like a lunatic, and the whole getting up to go pee at least twice a night is just annoying... but the end result is going to be phenomenal. After typing all this (and fully relishing complaining for a bit), I looked just to my right and saw the ultrasonic image of our baby. OUR baby. A child of our very own. And I know that the things I have to put up with now will fade into the distant past when they lay that baby on my chest for the first time. Yes, I know that I still have a lot of hard stuff ahead of me, but God has brought us this far and I'm confident that He'll take us the rest of the way through. And all that will matter when it's all said and done is that my baby and I are healthy and whole and together, face to face, finally.
Meanwhile, you might have wondered why I took the time to type all this anyway and am not in bed like most normal people are at 12:30 at night. Heartburn, naturally.
*Written on 7/18/2007
Overall, I have enjoyed being pregnant as I always thought I would; although, it's been quite different from how I had it figured all along. Big surprise. You would think I'd learn to actually NOT trust what I expect or assume since it becomes increasingly more obvious to me that I am, 9 times out of 10, wrong.
One of my assumptions was that being a naturally emotional person, I would be a dynamically more emotional pregnant person. I was wrong. Much to David's joy and amazement, I have only had 2 or 3 major melt downs during pregnancy. That would be a fairly outstanding record for me during a "normal" nine month period. I also figured that I would be considerably weepy and sentimental about the whole idea of impending motherhood, but again I was wrong. Don't misunderstand me... I'm absolutely overjoyed and thrilled about having a child, but I haven't waxed poetic on the topic even once. Again, something pretty new and different for an old poet/beatnik wannabe (don't judge me too harshly; I've had a very lengthy awkward stage and it's possible that I may finally be emerging).
So besides a couple of significant mental/emotional changes, what else has happened to me in the past months?
My interests have changed. I've always liked to go to Barnes & Noble, get a nice tea, and sit down with a magazine. My preference in magazines used to consist of Cosmopolitan, Star, Us Weekly, or something else equally disgusting and brainless. I still like the tea, of course (although not as often because of the caffeine), but my magazine choice has changed considerably. I forget the names of the magazines (another pregnancy side effect), but all the topics of interest are the same. What's swelling, stretching, sagging, leaking, retaining, growing, contracting, tearing, or otherwise protruding this month?
About the absent mindedness. David randomly called me into the kitchen this afternoon to "look at something in the refrigerator." I had explained to him earlier that upon finding that we were out of spaghetti sauce I had concocted my own. What he wanted me to see in the refrigerator was a half-full jar of spaghetti sauce sitting at 12 o'clock in plain sight right in front of the orange juice. I did the same thing earlier this week with a hair clippy, which I found being the only object sitting in the middle of my empty bathroom counter top after proclaiming that it was nowhere to be found.
I've found the later stages of pregnancy to be the most frustrating at least when it comes to clothing choices. After recycling the same 3 dresses for Sundays and Wednesday nights about 6 weeks running, I decided to revert back to some of the nice blouses I'd all but forgotten. No dice. None of them fit anymore! I'm not THAT much bigger am I? I have less than 2 months to go and had to go shopping for more clothes yesterday. I tried on several items only to find that, yes, I do look like a hippopotamus. A hippopotamus who no longer has ankles. A hippopotamus who should maybe just invest in a good muu-muu or a Sir Edmund Hillary tent.
But really, folks...
The maternity clothes are getting to be a nuisance, the swollen ankles are a pain, the absent mindedness is making me feel like a lunatic, and the whole getting up to go pee at least twice a night is just annoying... but the end result is going to be phenomenal. After typing all this (and fully relishing complaining for a bit), I looked just to my right and saw the ultrasonic image of our baby. OUR baby. A child of our very own. And I know that the things I have to put up with now will fade into the distant past when they lay that baby on my chest for the first time. Yes, I know that I still have a lot of hard stuff ahead of me, but God has brought us this far and I'm confident that He'll take us the rest of the way through. And all that will matter when it's all said and done is that my baby and I are healthy and whole and together, face to face, finally.
Meanwhile, you might have wondered why I took the time to type all this anyway and am not in bed like most normal people are at 12:30 at night. Heartburn, naturally.
*Written on 7/18/2007
laundry
If there were ever a fit analogy for eternity, it must be laundry.
It is the ever-present stuff that life is made of. And even when the baskets are empty, the promise of tomorrow's dirty socks, underwear lingers. Since, after all, every today's starchy button down or grungy Saturday t-shirt is every tomorrow's lights and darks.
Even before birth, one's diapers, clothes, and bed linens must be laundered appropriately. A time-consuming task for the nesting mother. One's laundry must be continued indefinitely by whomever is brave enough to take on the task.
All of this is hardly a concern to most until the great new adventure of college life, at which time one must find a suitable laundromat or haul home gigantic bags of increasingly moldy and mildewed unmentionables to Mother. Laundry, at this point, becomes a concern of great proportion since laundromats cost money and Mother nags.
Perhaps laundry is the infinity represented by the exchanged wedding bands, as the task of laundry only grows with the swap of those sacred vows. Ceremony and reception in hindsight, what is the next step but to hurriedly shed the symbolic attire, which is tossed aside becoming tomorrow's wash pile before the marriage is even consummated. Sure there's still the honeymoon, but that, of course, only leads to sand-filled swim suits which naturally must be laundered (and normally HAND laundered, I might add).
Thus life begins and wedded bliss ends. The towels creep from the hamper and slowly progress toward the ceiling. The young couple grows accustomed to each other's varying stains and smells and settle into a comfortable familiarity. Everything ticks along swimmingly until the washing machine becomes unbalanced. The newly wedded pair sit bolt upright in bed alarmed by the racket coming from the laundry room, a rhythmic ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk. The brave young husband dashes through the house in his skivvies only to find that the washing machine has tangoed its way out of the laundry room and halfway across the kitchen. There is no long-term repair, they find. So, the concede to closing the laundry room door, turning the television up, and doing their best to ignore the spin cycle.
These are only a few aspects of life affected so distinctly by laundry. There are many more. Introducing children into the household creates more laundry and less time to do it. The older the child, the more varying the stains. Babies produce only two or three kinds of stains, but a more independent child who is capable of preparing his own peanut butter and banana sandwiches as well as going outside unattended to feed it to the dog is capable of a virtual rainbow of stains almost every day. Thus, pre-treating becomes something of real importance.
At this point, Mother's only hope is that the child will prefer the laundromat over her nagging. And then it's most likely not far off that the child will get married and start his or her own wash pile.
In the end, a person who is careful to make plans ahead of time lays everything out in a will. With every detail in place, one's executor should know even what outfit one would prefer to be laid out in. Unfortunately, too many times, said outfit has been stored away with in a stuffy attic or perhaps with mothballs. Since no one wants Mother, Grandmother, etc. to smell of mothballs the outfit must be, you guessed it, laundered.
Thus is the great circle of life... all laid out in the ever-present medium of laundry.
---
Forgive me. It's late and I'm waiting for a bout of indigestion to pass (no pun intended).
*Written on 6/23/2007
It is the ever-present stuff that life is made of. And even when the baskets are empty, the promise of tomorrow's dirty socks, underwear lingers. Since, after all, every today's starchy button down or grungy Saturday t-shirt is every tomorrow's lights and darks.
Even before birth, one's diapers, clothes, and bed linens must be laundered appropriately. A time-consuming task for the nesting mother. One's laundry must be continued indefinitely by whomever is brave enough to take on the task.
All of this is hardly a concern to most until the great new adventure of college life, at which time one must find a suitable laundromat or haul home gigantic bags of increasingly moldy and mildewed unmentionables to Mother. Laundry, at this point, becomes a concern of great proportion since laundromats cost money and Mother nags.
Perhaps laundry is the infinity represented by the exchanged wedding bands, as the task of laundry only grows with the swap of those sacred vows. Ceremony and reception in hindsight, what is the next step but to hurriedly shed the symbolic attire, which is tossed aside becoming tomorrow's wash pile before the marriage is even consummated. Sure there's still the honeymoon, but that, of course, only leads to sand-filled swim suits which naturally must be laundered (and normally HAND laundered, I might add).
Thus life begins and wedded bliss ends. The towels creep from the hamper and slowly progress toward the ceiling. The young couple grows accustomed to each other's varying stains and smells and settle into a comfortable familiarity. Everything ticks along swimmingly until the washing machine becomes unbalanced. The newly wedded pair sit bolt upright in bed alarmed by the racket coming from the laundry room, a rhythmic ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk. The brave young husband dashes through the house in his skivvies only to find that the washing machine has tangoed its way out of the laundry room and halfway across the kitchen. There is no long-term repair, they find. So, the concede to closing the laundry room door, turning the television up, and doing their best to ignore the spin cycle.
These are only a few aspects of life affected so distinctly by laundry. There are many more. Introducing children into the household creates more laundry and less time to do it. The older the child, the more varying the stains. Babies produce only two or three kinds of stains, but a more independent child who is capable of preparing his own peanut butter and banana sandwiches as well as going outside unattended to feed it to the dog is capable of a virtual rainbow of stains almost every day. Thus, pre-treating becomes something of real importance.
At this point, Mother's only hope is that the child will prefer the laundromat over her nagging. And then it's most likely not far off that the child will get married and start his or her own wash pile.
In the end, a person who is careful to make plans ahead of time lays everything out in a will. With every detail in place, one's executor should know even what outfit one would prefer to be laid out in. Unfortunately, too many times, said outfit has been stored away with in a stuffy attic or perhaps with mothballs. Since no one wants Mother, Grandmother, etc. to smell of mothballs the outfit must be, you guessed it, laundered.
Thus is the great circle of life... all laid out in the ever-present medium of laundry.
---
Forgive me. It's late and I'm waiting for a bout of indigestion to pass (no pun intended).
*Written on 6/23/2007
not sleeping and why
I had already laid down for the night, but there's something about the feeling of gastric acid creeping up your esophagus that just doesn't inspire sweet dreams. Yuck-o.
It's been a sad past few days due to the fact that David's mom's boss and his wife lost their oldest son in a biking accident on Saturday. His name was Bobby and he was 36. He left a wife and two little kids who are too young to grasp how their lives have changed.
I didn't know him personally, but I've been more troubled by the deaths of people I knew less. It's the same as always, though; I try for days to rationalize why it troubles me and become even more troubled by the fact that I can't rationalize it. I know that God's in control of it all and this He knows the end result of all things, but it's so hard to not wonder why it had to happen.
Still, beyond all the initial sadness of the situation, I can't help but think that no other person who know so little of him as I do has thought the things I have. How will his wife stand to go home and open the closet and smell him on all of his clothes? And look around the house and see things as he left them? How will Christmas ever be anything happy for them ever again? I know his death affects a lot of people, but my mind keeps going back to his wife... over and over...
But why do I even think these things?
I guess most of all, it's made me really stop and consider the blessings in my own life. In the past few days, every time David has hugged or kissed me or just held my hand, it's meant something a little bit different. Feeling him in bed next to me has been just a little bit sweeter. I'm a little bit happier to hear the door open when he gets home in the afternoons.
It's made me think that despite the random stresses and occasional aggravations of marriage, even though we get on each other's nerves sometimes, and even if every single minute of every single day isn't euphorically happy... at least we have more than memories of each other. I have him here with me to share all those ups and downs.
I hope that even when I stop thinking about such sad things, I can hold onto the lessons they've taught me. Every day that I live and can share with David is such a blessing that I know I take too much for granted. I'm sure Rachel would give anything now for one more day with Bobby.
*Written on 6/19/2007
It's been a sad past few days due to the fact that David's mom's boss and his wife lost their oldest son in a biking accident on Saturday. His name was Bobby and he was 36. He left a wife and two little kids who are too young to grasp how their lives have changed.
I didn't know him personally, but I've been more troubled by the deaths of people I knew less. It's the same as always, though; I try for days to rationalize why it troubles me and become even more troubled by the fact that I can't rationalize it. I know that God's in control of it all and this He knows the end result of all things, but it's so hard to not wonder why it had to happen.
Still, beyond all the initial sadness of the situation, I can't help but think that no other person who know so little of him as I do has thought the things I have. How will his wife stand to go home and open the closet and smell him on all of his clothes? And look around the house and see things as he left them? How will Christmas ever be anything happy for them ever again? I know his death affects a lot of people, but my mind keeps going back to his wife... over and over...
But why do I even think these things?
I guess most of all, it's made me really stop and consider the blessings in my own life. In the past few days, every time David has hugged or kissed me or just held my hand, it's meant something a little bit different. Feeling him in bed next to me has been just a little bit sweeter. I'm a little bit happier to hear the door open when he gets home in the afternoons.
It's made me think that despite the random stresses and occasional aggravations of marriage, even though we get on each other's nerves sometimes, and even if every single minute of every single day isn't euphorically happy... at least we have more than memories of each other. I have him here with me to share all those ups and downs.
I hope that even when I stop thinking about such sad things, I can hold onto the lessons they've taught me. Every day that I live and can share with David is such a blessing that I know I take too much for granted. I'm sure Rachel would give anything now for one more day with Bobby.
*Written on 6/19/2007
a thanksgiving party
I'm having one on November 18th for the student organization of which I am a member.
So I thought: What makes a good one?
1. A list of colorful names on the guest list, which are fun to see and equally fun to say:
April, a whole month of sweet things.
Heather, a field of grayish-purple flowers.
Brad, an ingenious tool for holding things together.
...and many other beautiful ones who I hope will attend.
2. Extra tables set up in my kitchen because there are too many to fit elsewhere.
3. A non-traditional Thanksgiving menu with no turkey in sight:
Two soups: Chili and Potato
Homemade (by me) sourdough bread, perhaps
Cheese/Rotel dip with hot sausage (in a crock pot, naturally)
Veggie/cheese platter of some sort
...and perhaps a couple things brought by friends.
*and I haven't decided on dessert yet.
4. Some good music on in the background.
5. A clean house (that'll be the hardest part).
6. Maybe some games after we eat.
I'm excited and this is only the first of many lists, I'm sure, since I'm so fond of list-making.
*Written on 10/23/2006
So I thought: What makes a good one?
1. A list of colorful names on the guest list, which are fun to see and equally fun to say:
April, a whole month of sweet things.
Heather, a field of grayish-purple flowers.
Brad, an ingenious tool for holding things together.
...and many other beautiful ones who I hope will attend.
2. Extra tables set up in my kitchen because there are too many to fit elsewhere.
3. A non-traditional Thanksgiving menu with no turkey in sight:
Two soups: Chili and Potato
Homemade (by me) sourdough bread, perhaps
Cheese/Rotel dip with hot sausage (in a crock pot, naturally)
Veggie/cheese platter of some sort
...and perhaps a couple things brought by friends.
*and I haven't decided on dessert yet.
4. Some good music on in the background.
5. A clean house (that'll be the hardest part).
6. Maybe some games after we eat.
I'm excited and this is only the first of many lists, I'm sure, since I'm so fond of list-making.
*Written on 10/23/2006
a good birthday
1. Getting presents the night before because the giver is too excited to wait.
2. Waking up alive and healthy, which is a much better idea than waking up dead and sick.
3. Getting dressed and only having to change once because you aren't satisfied with the previous outfit.
4. Having time to check for birthday messages online and finding several.
5. Being sung to over the phone by your mother.
6. Finding out later that you were sung to before you even woke up that morning.
7. Not getting kidnapped on the way to class.
8. Being told by your dad that he's thankful the Lord gave you to him.
9. Having a friend who remembers your birthday and brings you a brownie with a candle in it.
10. Eating lunch with your mom, sister, and niece. Buying your niece something that makes her happy.
11. Driving with the window down and listening to good music as loud as you like. Admiring the lazily changing leaves.
12. Coming home to find one balloon tied to your mailbox and catching your sister in the act of tying another one onto your front door.
13. Receiving 4 or 5 cards in the mail.
14. Going to the Lord's house and having the opportunity to publicly thank Him for the good life He's given.
15. Eating cake and ice cream with your husband and parents.
16. Sitting down and making a list about why your birthday was good.
God's been so good. And what do I have to give? Nothing of myself, but only His precious Son's righteousness and the blood which He's allowed me to spread on my door posts. Thank God for His grace, mercy, and providence for the past 21 years.
*Written on 10/18/2006
2. Waking up alive and healthy, which is a much better idea than waking up dead and sick.
3. Getting dressed and only having to change once because you aren't satisfied with the previous outfit.
4. Having time to check for birthday messages online and finding several.
5. Being sung to over the phone by your mother.
6. Finding out later that you were sung to before you even woke up that morning.
7. Not getting kidnapped on the way to class.
8. Being told by your dad that he's thankful the Lord gave you to him.
9. Having a friend who remembers your birthday and brings you a brownie with a candle in it.
10. Eating lunch with your mom, sister, and niece. Buying your niece something that makes her happy.
11. Driving with the window down and listening to good music as loud as you like. Admiring the lazily changing leaves.
12. Coming home to find one balloon tied to your mailbox and catching your sister in the act of tying another one onto your front door.
13. Receiving 4 or 5 cards in the mail.
14. Going to the Lord's house and having the opportunity to publicly thank Him for the good life He's given.
15. Eating cake and ice cream with your husband and parents.
16. Sitting down and making a list about why your birthday was good.
God's been so good. And what do I have to give? Nothing of myself, but only His precious Son's righteousness and the blood which He's allowed me to spread on my door posts. Thank God for His grace, mercy, and providence for the past 21 years.
*Written on 10/18/2006
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