Wednesday, November 9, 2011

the end.

Do you write in a journal?

I do. And sometimes I find that it's time to start over. To have a new, fresh, unwrinkled, unstained journal to write in.

I haven't written here in a long while. (obviously.) And recently, I've wanted to write again. But something has held me back. Part of it is that I needed to take a break, to sit back and keep it totally personal for a while... part of it is that I somehow feel like there's so much on this blog, and it's weighing me down, making it hard to start over.

So, I'm starting over here.

yes, i'm sentimental. so yes, i'm sad to leave Pearls. but i'm excited too. nervous, but excited.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

odds and ends

I realized the other day, as I thought about how long it's been since I've felt "inspired" to write something here, that I've developed the habit of writing for myself. Before I left for Ethiopia, all the things I wrote were too personal to gleefully stick on the internet for all and sundry to read, and while I was there, I couldn't write blog posts, and so I didn't. I wrote in my journal, and I wrote letters, and I started a novel. (I know. How very cliche' of me.)

Since I've been home, I've been busy with life, and busy rejoicing in the fact that I'M FINALLY HOME AND OHMYWORD I LOVE AMERICA SO DANG MUCH. (get the picture? if not, it's that i'm glad to be home and that i think america is the grandest country in the whole wide world. now you know How I Really Feel.)

And here's the deal: I like writing for just me. Or for just a couple of people. I feel less pressured, and the writing itself is generally better. Less humorous, maybe, but better none-the-less.

So.

Am I going to quit this blog? No, I don't think so. Nor am I going to say that I'm "taking a break." I hate it when people write that on their blogs and then proceed to never type another word. They're not taking a break; they're just not willing to make the commitment to shut it down when that's really what they should do.

But I want you all to know - since so many of you have been kind and supportive of my writing... and i thank you for that - that I haven't stopped writing as much as ever. I'm simply writing in a more personal, deeper way these days, and right now, that doesn't involve blogging as much.

--------------------------------------------





In other news, college starts next Monday, and so I've reached a Bend In The Road, and I'm eager to see what's around it. I'm not nervous, for those of you who have asked, because this seems like such a small thing in comparison to moving halfway around the world for three months without my family. But it's still Big, and I'm still a little excited.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

it shouldn't take more than a couple of years to make, right?

I want this dress. Badly.

Of course, I couldn't wear it to just any old place.

It would have to be a elegant afternoon tea, or a stroll through a beautiful, old fashioned city, (like parts of Louisville, KY.) Or a picnic under a shady tree, (preferably a picnic sans rain,) where we sipped lemonade and read Tennyson out loud.




and yes, something would have to be different about the bodice. but still.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

a bit about my babies.

This afternoon, we had a family with young kids over to visit, [and their four year old girl told me the sweet tea I made tasted like lipstick... yep, that's my secret - I add lipstick to sweet tea,] and in the course of the afternoon, I heard their baby boy crying upstairs.

I ran upstairs to get him, and as I entered the dark room where he'd been napping, the cries strangely didn't stop. When I lifted him in my arms and held him close, he still sobbed and blubbered on my shoulder. "This is strange," I thought. "He's still crying!" and then, "Why is this strange?"

And that's when I realized: I've become spoiled to orphans.

I'm used to babies who know what it's like to lie in their beds unattended and unheeded for loooong stretches of time... who know what it feels like to not get their diapers changed as soon as they wake up... they're so grateful that someone with gentle hands is picking them up that they become little cooing, babbling, grinning packages of happiness as soon as I lay hands on them. (with a few exceptions, of course.)

Those babies didn't know I wasn't their mama.


But this little sucker - he knew. He knew his mama was in the house, and he knew that I sure as heck wasn't her.


And as I carried him downstairs to his own mother, (and as he stopped crying - apparently he recognized that I had a bit of The Mother Touch,) I was overwhelmed with gratitude that this baby wasn't like the ones I spent three months loving on. He is loved. He is mothered.

And then. Then, I began missing my sweet Ethiopia babies.






I'll miss them forever, I suppose. Remember their soft hands, their needy cries, their incredibly happy smiles.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

An afternoon thunderstorm, spent in Good Company

Today, Mamaw and I went to visit one of her childhood friends, (who just happens to have one of the weirdest names ever - Vermel. Please don't be jealous of that name.)

We sat on Vermel's porch in rocking chairs, watching rain pour down in silvery, refreshing sheets, listening to a lone bird singing away in a nearby apple tree, while Mamaw and Vermel bemoaned the fact that their tomatoes aren't doing well, discussed each others families at great length, and took a few jaunts down memory lane when the opportunity presented itself.

They sat holding hands, talking about their aches and pains, their gratitude to God that He's allowed them to stay healthy enough to live in their own homes, various and sundry recipes that have failed or succeeded beautifully lately, and I was overwhelmed by peaceful happiness... watching these two ladies, who've lived such full, energetic, busy lives, and aren't content to sit back and do nothing now that they're old - they still bake and visit and grow tomatoes - but in a calmer, more relaxed way. (and if they get too un-relaxed, they get lectured by their grandchildren who want them to be here as long as possible.)



And I sat there thinking, "Yes, I want to grow old like this."

Friday, July 8, 2011

Why, yes. I am.

As soon as i staggered off the plane in Amsterdam, backpack, violin case, and my pillow-that-i-couldn't-imagine-spending-three-months-without in tow, I made my way to the closest information desk and had the following enlightening conversation:

Me: "Excuse me, could you kindly tell me where the Starbucks is?" (Amsterdam airport is large, and my need was great.)

Lady at desk: "Around that corner, to the left, and all the way down."

Me: "Thank you. And can you also tell me where McDonald's is?"

Lady at desk: ::pause:: "You're American, aren't you?"

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Mitike and Getise

Twin sisters. Five months old. Beautiful. Identical - yet not. Mitike is a lively, bossy, large bundle of happiness, and Getise is a tiny, scrawny child with a rattling cough and a none-too-firm grip on life. You see, Getise is HIV positive; Mitike is not.

My heart has been so burdened for these sisters... afraid that Mitike will be adopted and go on to live a normal, healthy life, unaware she ever had a precious twin... afraid that Getise will wane slowly away in an orphanage, cared for, but not enough to make her well.

Yesterday, a nurse told me that a family has agreed to take BOTH babies. They will be kept together, Getise will be given the love and special attention she so desperately needs, and some blessed family in America will have two of the sweetest girls ever.

I've been reminded so beautifully that the God Who knows each sparrow when it falls also knows each baby - by name. He knows the hairs on their heads. He knows their lying down and their rising up. He holds each one in His hand.

This isn't always so apparent as it is with Mitike and Getise. There are babies in these orphanages - and all over the world - who will go the rest of their often short lives without families and special love... or even enough food. I don't understand why this has to be.

But I do believe - and have been shown again this week with the simple story of two sisters - that my heavenly Father DOES care. He DOES know all the hurts and the sorrows. He knows the orphans.

And He has promised to be a "Father to the fatherless." That has been particularly sweet to me for the past five years, but in the last three weeks I've realized I've barely scratched the surface of this promise.

Is He enough for each baby? Each child? Sick or well? Adopted or not?

Yes. He is.

Amazing, huh?

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Hello From Ethiopia

Hi, everyone! Sadly, I can't access blogspot from here, so I'm posting this via Laura. I had looked forward to sharing this experience with you, step by step, but it seems that's not to be. A quick overview: I arrived safely and sick, but I'm all better now, I miss my family a lot, but I am still convinced this is where God would have me to be right now, I have been to the orphanage three times now, and my biggest prayer request right now is that I would be able to show Christ's love to these unloved children in practical ways, and that I would know exactly "how". We are separated by a huge language barrier, but God is not limited, and I am resting in that knowledge.

I like some of the food and am not so crazy about the rest of it, but their hot tea is probably the hot tea that was drunk by the gods on Mount Olympis

Last, but not least, TREASURE YOUR ICE. No joke. I had no idea how much I loved cold, icy drinks until they were no longer available. So, drink a cold bottle of water for me. :)

I am a stranger, in a strange land, surrounded by different customs, different expectations, and different values. I have found, however, that I am most certainly not alone. Even when I feel most cut off from the fellowship I am used to, my Heavenly Father comes alongside me, takes my hand, and reminds me that He is with me and will never leave me. This promise has become sweeter to me than I can begin to describe.

I feel much closer to Him here than I did in America, surrounded by comfort and familiarity, but I know that isn't because He's greater or nearer here... it's because I didn't realize how MUCH I wasn't resting in Him back home.

I encourage each of you to "press on to know the Lord, for His coming is as sure as the morning, as the sweet spring rains that water the ground." Hosea 6:3

Monday, April 11, 2011

Bon Voyage!

Aaaaannnnddd...

I'm off!

Saturday, April 9, 2011

this is it....

It's definitely feelin' real. I'm leaving. Monday.

These last couple of days have been beautifully normal, only with lots of extra visiting and sweetness thrown in.

--------------------


I'm sick right now with a cough and a nasty sore throat, so I'd VERY much appreciate everyone's prayers that God would bless my body to be strong and well quickly.

For those five hundred of you who've asked, you can send me facebook messages or emails while I'm gone, and I should be able to get them and respond... tho perhaps not in a timely manner. And if you want to put pen to paper and actually write me, (remember, i'm a big fan of snail mail,) you can message me and I'll give you my address.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

three days...

Three days left. This evening I'm spending time with Joseph and Andrea and their two ADORABLE little girls... little girls I'm not gonna see for three months... youngest little girl whose birthday I'm gonna miss...

mama and andrea are cooking a yummy supper - lots of vegetables, nicely coated in salt, pepper, and butter.

nora is crawling around, cooing and gurgling, and charlie is beseeching me to come do puzzles.

happy times.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

five days.

Tonight, Anna and I Begin To Pack. To say that I have a multitude of things to cram into two suitcases - both of which have to weigh only fifty lbs. - is the understatement of the century.

Thankfully, Anna is a Master Packer, and could probably fit all the stuff I have plus a newborn baby elephant into a backpack.

Yes. That was stretching the truth a bit. But still.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

six days to go...

I've found myself randomly gazing at things in our house and yard these last couple of days - a particular picture, a certain corner, a wall I've looked at thousands of times - memorizing each detail, storing each mental photo in my mind, treasuring it up for the days ahead. I like my home. I like my family.
but for really the first time, I'm getting excited.

Monday, April 4, 2011

with love, Daddy

Today, Mama stumbled across a box of supplies Daddy bought and took with him on one of his mission trips to Africa. There were bandaids, hydrocorisone cream, face astringent, pain patches, and lots of other useful odds and ends, all jumbled together, waiting to be used. I teared up as Mama showed me each item, because in a small way, it was like a little blessing, a gift, if you will, from Daddy as I make this trip. He would've been so excited for me, so helpful, so full of wise advice, so supportive, so prayerful, and I'm missing him very much these days. I don't know whether those we love can see us from Paradise. Daddy thought maybe they could, sometimes. I like to think that perhaps he knows what I'm about to do. -just seven days left-

Sunday, April 3, 2011

the way it began.

today is Phoebe's Gotcha Day. For those unfortunate people who don't have adopted family and need explanation, your Gotcha Day is simply the day you come to live with your forever family.

Six years ago today, a long, thin, strong willed, beautiful baby was placed in Anna's arms.

To say she has changed all of our lives would be such an understatement.

Phoebe, (because you're reading this; because you can read now!!) I love you so much. You're not only my first niece, you're the first reason I began to love Ethiopia.

Now I'm going to live there for a while - live where you were born. I'm excited. And I'm thankful. Thankful that God knew exactly when you should come into our lives, thankful that He put you in our family, thankful that I get this chance to live in your Birth Country for a while.

Happy Gotcha Day, my dearest.





::eight days now::

Saturday, April 2, 2011

savoring each moment.

I'm on the brink of tears today. Everything about home is so dang sweet, and everything about leaving is so grey looking. (except maybe my new backpack that makes me look like a genuine hardcore traveler... or a mountain woman... or something intense like that.)

so, I'm soaking in the sweetness. I cuddled with mama and annmarie. I'm about to endear myself forever to Laura by jumping on her to wake her up - at 8:30 on a Saturday morning. Tonight I'll spend with Lowell, Anna, Phoebe, Isaiah - and Phoebe's new puppy, Tumnus!





Nine days to go.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

For now, at least.

The little Road says, Go;
The little House says, Stay;
And oh, it's bonny here at home,
But I must go away.

-Josephine P. Peabody





Ten days to go!

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Eleven days to go...

It's officially officially Official.

Background check came back clean, (shocker, I know,) travel dates are all set, and I'm girding up the loins of my body and mind to leave home for three months.

People keep asking me if I'm excited, and some of them say it with this look on their face as though they're expecting me to be acting like I would if Christmas and my birthday and a trip to the Bahamas with my family and a huge scholarship happened to me all at once. Well, that's not how I feel.

Sure, I'm excited.

But I'm also scared. The longest I've ever been away from my Mama is sixteen days. I like clean places. I don't like to see people sick when I can't do anything to fix it. I like automatic washing machines. There are lots of bad things that could happen to me when I'm in a third world country, (as an over-abundance of thoughtful people keep reminding me. And then reminding me again.) I don't speak Amharic. Addis is a big city. I may get sick.

So there you have it. My feelings of anticipation are split down the middle. Half is apprehension, and half is excitement.

But you know what I'm 100% sure about?

My Father has taken care of me since the moment I was conceived, and I don't believe for a second that He's going to to stop now. Is His arm shortened, that it cannot reach across the ocean? Is He weaker in Ethiopia than He is in Mississippi?

Of course not! How ridiculous, my mind answers immediately. My mind. I really do know in my head that God is omniscient, omnipresent, kind, and faithful.

But do I believe it in my heart? Will it make a difference in my life? Will I be able to trust Him completely? Trust Him enough to leave my comforts and my security and go where I believe He's calling me to go?

These questions have flooded me the last couple of months. It's one thing to sit at home, or even go about difficult but more "normal" things and say "oh, absolutely I trust God implicitly." It's another to put that into practice when, well, when I'm going to a third world country by myself for a long time.

I've struggled with wondering whether I'll be able to do it. Will I fail? Will I miss the trust-God-completely boat?

And then, all of a sudden, God helped me see how silly I was being. Worrying about whether or not I'll lean fully on God in the future is not going to accomplish anything.

Leaning on Him now, giving everything, (even my self-doubts,) over to Him now, this is what I must do. This is what I can do. And I'm so thankful that I can. Such a sweet relief, isn't it, to rest in Him all the time?

Saturday, March 26, 2011

No. That's not it.

Me: "Do you boys know what is the only food or drink you can live on all by itself for months?" (maybe for years; I don't know about that.)

Ben: "Water?"

Me: "No, but close."

Lee: ::with great confidence:: "Mountain Dew!"





it's milk, by the way.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

like the footsteps of doom...

Tomorrow. Is. My. Audition.

I'm nervous. Very, very nervous. I love playing the violin, but playing in front of people, especially when there's any pressure, makes me physically sick. (To be precise, it feels like two or three medium sized dragons are dueling in my stomach, breathing fire, thrashing around viciously... the whole nine yards. I'm only exaggerating a little bit.)

Aaaannnd... yeah. There's a lot of pressure goin' on right now. Oh, yeah, it's just the audition to see whether I get into the music department, what seat I have in the orchestra, and whether or not I receive a scholarship. No big deal.

Oh, wait. IT IS A BIG DEAL.

And I'm nervous. (Hm? Oh, I already told you that? Well, I'm telling you again.)

My game plan these last couple of weeks, and the last two days especially has been: breathe.

When I start feeling nauseated, when my mind races into panic mode, (whatifImessupreallybadly, whatifImessupreallybadly, whatifImessupreallybadly???) I just take lots of deep, deep breaths. It helps.

And then I dash upstairs and play my pieces over and over and over again. The whole piece. Then the problem measures... ten times, slowly. five times medium. then up to tempo. Repeat. Breathe.

I find that while I'm playing, I'm not nervous. It's been such a relief to discover this. "Oh, that's good," you might remark. "You'll be fine tomorrow." But unfortunately, this lovely feature doesn't carry over to performances.

My hands get sweaty. So sweaty I can hardly take a grip on my bow. My legs and hands shake. Very literally. (I always have WAY too much vibrato when I'm performing, and it's not 'cause I'm meaning to.) My heart speeds up... speeds up... speeds up.... til I can hardly hear anything except THU-THUMP THU-THUMP THUMPTHUMPTHUMP. Not conducive to playing well, as you can imagine. And I almost always mess up at least once. I can remember two performances when I didn't.

All I want to do at moments like those is run from the room and never pick up my violin again. Ever.

But, as the reverend Mother told Maria, and as Maria told Leisel, (doesn't it make you happy when something from a favorite movie helps in real life?) "you can't run away from your problems. You have to face them."

Tomorrow, I'll face my audition. And I know, as Rachel Lynde told Anne, "the sun will go on rising and setting whether I fail [my audition] or not."

(That knowledge is about as comforting to me as it was to Anne, by the way. In other words, zero comfort.)

So, now you know. If I'm covered in sackcloth and ashes the next time you see me, just be kind and don't ask how I did. If I look reasonably sane and happy, ask anything you want.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

and... this is fair how?

Isaiah: "I'll be a big lion, KK, and you be a little cat!"

Thursday, March 17, 2011

The Fine Art of Using Nosespray:

Firstly, it is a fine art.

Secondly, I am a complete failure at it.

::First night with clogged head:: Squirt the nosespray very, very gently. So gently, in fact, that none comes out, thereby doing zero good.

Realize that bravery is essential. Tip head back, give a sound squeeze of the bottle and a ferocious snort of the nose at the same time. Cough and choke and splutter, since a copious amount of the spray went through the nose and down the back of the throat.

Drink lots of juice and water and tea, hoping to get the burning ache in the back of throat to go away. You won't succeed, but try anyway.

::Second night:: Repeat the above, except it will be on the third try instead of the second that you snort the spray too far, thereby rendering the go-to-sleep-with-a-stuffed-head-a-cough-and-a-sore-throat process much more difficult.

Vow within yourself to take vitamins diligently from now to the end of time.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Five Years


Today marks five years since Daddy went Home.

There is still, and always will be, a blank spot in my life. Sometimes, this blank spot is so small it could fit in my pocket, and sometimes it's a yawning, vast hole, overshadowing everything else. I continue to be surprised by this ebb and flow, for I expected it to always stay the same - bitter, dark, sad, and huge. But as time goes by, I find I can laugh at memories, I can smile without aching when I think of Daddy, and I have much rest and joy in the knowledge that he is with His Savior.

Sometimes, I want him so very, very much. Sometimes, I would have him back from Paradise if I could. Sometimes I'm weak. And sometimes I just need my Daddy.

He was such an integral part of my life that it's really mind-boggling to think "I am going to live the rest of my life without Daddy."

But then I am just grateful for all the years I did have with him.

Happy times when I was reminded every day how much my Daddy loved me.



And I still know he loves me. I still love him. Most importantly, I know that he and I have the same Heavenly Father. That thought is immensely comforting.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

a little Jane Austen to close out the night.

This made me laugh, possibly because it's late at night and everything is So Much More Amusing late at night.

-From Sense and Sensibility-

"One subject only engaged the ladies: the comparative heights of Master Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William, who were nearly of the same age.
Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides, and everybody had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked.
The parties stood thus:
The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.
The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.
Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between them.
Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which she offended Mrs. Ferras and Fanny, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion, and Marianne, when called on for her's, offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had never thought about it."

I do love Jane Austen. I know, I know, it's cliche', but she was a master of dry, satirical humor, and that floats my boat.

Friday, March 4, 2011

our needs are simple, our wants are few.

Me: "I really want some sweet tea."

Mama: (wandering aimlessly around the kitchen with a pen in her hand,) "I just want a piece of paper."

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

All men created equal

I'm reading a book called The Help by Katherine Stockett. It's set after Rosa Parks took her famous bus ride and right around the time Martin Luther King Jr. dreamed a dream and James Meredith entered Ole Miss as its first black student.

Until my high school history class four years ago, I pretty much labored under the delusion that once segregation ended, it ended. For good. I did know there was still a lot of prejudice and hatred that lasted for a long while in some Caucasian circles, but I really did think that those circles were the minority.

Well, they weren't.

The Help is narrated from three different view points, and one of them is the perspective of Abileen, the black hired help of a finicky, too-good-for-her-britches white woman. Abileen was raising this woman's child, just as she'd raised twenty other children for white people. After the little girl's mama spanked her for using Abileen's bathroom instead of her own, (back then, I've discovered, the "help" was required to have their own bathroom, separate from the rest of the house, because the white people were afraid of catching a disease from the blacks,) Abileen wrote:

"I want to yell so loud that Baby Girl can hear me that dirty ain't a color, disease ain't the Negro side of town. I want to stop that moment from coming - and it come in ever white child's life - when they start to think that colored folks ain't as good as whites."

That moment. It came in every white child's life, especially if they lived in the South. The moment they decided that colored folks aren't as good as whites.

As I was reading, (you can buy the book here or get it at your library - it's worth it, but keep in mind it's not for kids to read,) I was overwhelmed with thanksgiving that we've come as far as we have in America.

I see segregation being like a massive door in a medieval castle. Little by little, blow by blow, the battering ram of equality has succeeded in knocking it down, but that didn't happen all at once. The efforts of William Wilberforce, the civil war, the Emancipation Proclamation, the civil rights movement, all these things were blows to the door. Prejudice still lives, especially in the South, but it's so much better, at least outwardly, from what it used to be.

In the early nineteen hundreds, President Theodore Roosevelt invited George Washington Carver, a black man, to be his dinner guest at the White House, and oh, the scandal that ensued!
And now, we have an African-American president for the first time.

The Help was set in Mississippi, and it told about one woman who had to give up her baby girl, because she was too light. The white woman she worked for considered having the daughter of a black servant being so close in color to their own children an affront to white people's respectability.

It was against the law for whites and blacks to marry each other. If they broke that law, the very least, (and the best,) consequence was imprisonment. More often, it was lynching.

Today, all over America, Caucasian families adopt brown children, and African-Americans adopt white kids. There's intermarriage between black people and white people. I don't think we stop and think about how great a blessing this is. It's pretty much normal. It's every day life. And that's so wonderful.

Like I said, prejudice isn't dead. But I really believe it's breathing its last. Maybe, Lord willing, by the time I have children, there will be absolutely no doubt in anybody's mind that "dirty ain't a color."





::Clarification::

I don't view this through rose colored glasses. I realize that racism won't fully die until Jesus comes back. But I do believe that perhaps in another generation, it will be completely dead outwardly... not within some people's hearts, but in our country as a whole.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Phoebe Can Read.

Let me repeat that:

Phoebe Can Read.

Yes, I know. It's amazingly wonderful.

Now, that doesn't mean she can read The Iliad or The Great Gatsby, nor does it mean she doesn't complain about having to read the word "everybody" every single time she comes across it. The word "everyONE" never gives her a bit of trouble. Oh, no. But everyBODY? Just kill her now.

But the point is, She Can Read.

I am very, very delighted.

I didn't read until I was seven, (Phoebe is almost seven,) and recently, after a particularly frustrating day of lessons, I went and re-read the first chapter book I ever read. I still enjoyed it quite a lot, which means a. I was a super intelligent seven year old who was able to read a really advanced book, b. I'm an exceptionally stupid eighteen year old, or c. it's just a good story. (I'm going with c.)

I'm going to give the book to Phoebe for her seventh birthday, because tutoring her has allowed me to make the precious journey of learning to read all over again. And I have to say, I totally sympathize with Phoebe sometimes. Why DO they throw in all those extra "silent" letters?? She would've been reading weeks ago if four words out of five didn't didn't have a silent "e" somewhere in it.

Bottom line: I'm not gonna lie. I never thought she'd read the word should.

But she can. She reads "should," and "could," and "would" like they hadn't even tripped her up for three months and many, many tearful sessions.

She's so pleased with herself, and she told me at least three times today "This just feels so good, KK! You were right! Reading is fun!" Then she refused to read "everybody" for the fourth time, but oh well.

Happy, happy day.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Dear World,

I love buttercups... or daffodils... or jonquils.

Whatever you want to call them, (personally, I prefer buttercups, because, duh, cups of butter, how awesome is that,) I adore them.

Their braveness in popping up during the first stretch of warmth and sun always inspires me, (some people might call it stupidity, since we always have a couple of late frosts, but I like to be optimistic and encouraging. Not that the daffodils know of my encouragement, but I'm giving it anyway.)

And since Spring is my Most Favorite Season of All, seeing the bright splashes of yellow dotting the most unexpected places makes my insides flip and flop, because buttercups, of course, are Spring's own personal Messengers. (Incidentally, Spring also enjoys eating creamy butter by the bowl full, in honor of her favorite flower. I know that's true; the fairies told me so.)

A couple of days ago, I tramped through the overgrown, (and I do mean OVERGROWN,) yard of an abandoned house, scratching my legs most abominably and getting mud on my pink silk flats, all because I knew that hidden in amongst the brambles and briers, early buttercups slip up through the still cool ground and perform their own particular form of intoxicating magic.

And there they were. Waiting for me. Lifting their sunny little heads and nodding in the breeze as if to say "we're waiting! we're here! love us!"

So I did. I loved them and picked them and brought them home.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Beautiful.

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

~Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Ode to a Sky Lark"

Sunday, February 13, 2011

An Expotition the second.

Okay. Remember this post? The one where Courtney and I got hopelessly lost and scratched our hands and thighs up on brambles and risked life and limb climbing through deep gullies? Yeah, that one.

Today, Catherine and I decided to look for the cemetery again, and... we found it.

In about five minutes flat.

Yeah.

Courtney, I'm not saying you were bad luck, but...

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It was very secluded and very enchanted. The headstones were broken down or covered in vines and dirt, and the sunlight slanted weakly through a thick roof of tree branches. It was a corner of the world hidden from the fast pace of life... a place where people have stood and mourned, a place where flowers have been planted, a place where people are supposed to be remembered, but have mostly been forgotten...

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And Alfred Smith turned out to be Alfred McCowen. Yes, disconcerting, I know. But there his grave was. And there it will be until the moon and stars pass away... or an earthquake comes and the ground folds up on itself. (I don't actually think that's what technically happens during an earthquake, but whatever. I'm too lazy to go look it up on wikipedia.)

Monday, February 7, 2011

uh, um, sure.

Me: "Well, I like grapes, but I don't like grape flavoring."

Lee: "You're JUST like my Daddy! He likes peppermints!"

Friday, February 4, 2011

"East or West, Home is Best" is taking on a whole new meaning.

I'm looking through all our pictures this afternoon, (okay, not all of them, because that would take roughly two days, including infrequent meals and bathroom breaks,) picking out some of my favorites to order and take with me across the bounding billows. (Incidentally, Mamaw asked yesterday if I'd be traveling to Ethiopia via boat. Um, no.)

Not only is this picture search making me teary/happy/reminiscent/amused, it's making me realize for the hundredth time that I'm going to be so doggone homesick. Really. I am.

I love to travel, I do. But BY FAR the best part of every trip is coming home. I didn't used to feel that way. I dreaded coming home from a trip, (all the laundry, all the boring normalcy,) but now? Now I embrace unloading and coming in, rushing cozily around with mama, putting everything to rights. I love everything being in its right spot. I just love my house. It's beautiful, and it's home.

And my family. We're a very tight knit group, you see, and rarely does a day pass, (I would say close to never,) when I or Mama don't talk to Laura and Anna on the phone at least once apiece. And text with Joseph and Jacob. Even see their faces once in a blue moon. :) And, of course, the kiddies are in and out all week long.

So, wow. I'm leaving all this for three and a half-ish months? (There's a not-tiny part of me that's still hoping for AHOPE to email and say "oh, we're only going to need you for six weeks. No more."

Don't get me wrong. I'm happy about this trip. I am very genuinely looking forward to all of it - the bewilderingly new experiences, the novelty and difficulty of living in a third world country, taking care of the children, loving new people... all of it. Except for the homesickness I know will come, probably the moment I step on to the plane.

I'm not scared of it. I don't expect to be miserable, because I'll have the most important Person with me, and it's not like going half-way around the world fifty years ago, for heaven's sake.

But that doesn't mean leaving all this will be easy.





















p.s. I have a little crush on our Hopper Room. I want a room exactly like it in my house o' dreams.

Monday, January 31, 2011

Sending small children to the ER. That's what uncles are good for.

Lowell to Ben: "Hey, if you swallow the cherry pits you'll grow faster."

Ben: "Really?!"

Laura: "LOWELL!!"

Thursday, January 27, 2011

This is not a paid advertisement.

I love Home Depot.

No, really. I'm serious, people.

I love looking at the awesome lights - rows and rows of them! - the sleek sinks, the windows, the flower pots, the gorgeous paint colors, (all tastefully presented for you to admire,) and just... the everything. Because Home Depot has almost everything you can imagine of that ilk. (Except for the particular hanging basket I need, but it's okay. I forgive them.)

And the employees. I adore them.

They're so patient, so interested, so earnestly helpful. It makes me want to work there, just so I can be wonderful along side them! (only, I know zero about building. that might be a leetle problem.)

They don't look at me like I'm stupid and ignorant and totally wasting their time with my questions. Unlike some store's employees. (yes, i'm looking at you, office max. just because i identify the ink cartridge i need by the picture on the front and get thrown for a loop when you go and change the picture on me, doesn't mean you have to look down your more-than-ample nose at me.)

Plus, the smell. Be still my beating heart. I purposefully wander around near the lumber section, not because I need anything connected with lumber, but because the smell of freshly sawed wood makes my whole body twitch with happiness. And it makes me think of stalking Daddy while he was doing a project, of him with his worn, bulging tool belt and his ability to fix or build anything. Literally. If he didn't know, he figured a new way out.



"Can I help you with anything, ma'am?"

"No, I'm just enjoying the smell of the wood."
"I completely understand. Let me know if you decide you need anything, and enjoy yourself!"

Definitely my kind of store.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

ouch.

"IF, the moment I am conscious of the shadow of self crossing my threshold, I do not shut the door, and in the power of Him who works in us to will and to do, keep that door shut, then I know nothing of Calvary love." -amy carmichael



When I read this particular "if" this morning, for the first time in a long time, it pricked my heart, to say the least. So often I find that the shadow of self isn't what I have to fight against. Self itself, in all its strength, waltzes over my threshold and dances a polka in the living room of my heart. Ever experienced that?

And often it comes in when I'm least expecting it. But sometimes, I know when it's about to knock at the door. I can hear its footsteps approaching, as it were, and you know what? Much to my shame, I often go deliberately and open the door for it, inviting it in and doing nothing to try and hinder its residence.

As I think honestly about this, it makes me want to despair. What hope is there for a girl who makes self feel very much at home in a heart that should be wholly given over to Christ?

Thankfully, not only the problem but the solution is given in this short If. In the power of Him who works in me to will and to do, I can keep that door shut. It IS possible. It is what I MUST do. But, thank the Lord, it isn't something I must do alone.

Do you believe that?


Buy the book here. It's worth every penny.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Precocious. Enthusiastic. Energetic. Charming. Bossy.

Charlie is almost exactly like I was at her age. It's a bit terrifying, actually.

And her favorite thing to do is something I did for, oh, years and years - narrating her life. Every move she makes, every step she takes, fits into the grand Charlie Story.

For instance:

"And then Charlie bounced across the hilltop to join her friends, KK and Marmee. Charlie hugged them both and said 'Aren't you glad I'm here?'"


Yes, Charlie. We are.

"Then she ran into the other room and left them all alone. Charlie could hear them saying, 'Come back! Come back!' but she stayed away."


"Then she ran back in. 'Charlie's back!' she said. KK was sooo happy to see her!"


Yes, m'love, I am. It's like seeing myself again in the most fun years of all.

(Seriously, do y'all know how much fun it is to play under the table? I had just about forgotten the pure excitement of hiding from lions while squeezed in between rows of chairs.)

Friday, January 21, 2011

A reminder to look to Jesus

"You need the blood of Jesus as much now as at the first. You never can stand before God in yourself. You must go again and again to be washed; even on your dying bed you must hide under Jehovah our Righteousness. You must also lean upon Jesus. He alone can overcome in you. Keep nearer and nearer every day."
- taken from a sermon of Robert Murray M'Cheyne

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Big Things.

Okay.

Wow. It's been a while since I've really, truly written something here because... I've been scribbling and scratching all my thoughts and ramblings in letters or my journal, (gasp: I'm keeping a journal these days for the first time since I don't even want to think about when,) and the past couple of months have involved a significant bit of filling out applications, (thank you, college, for requiring so much of my brain power prior to admittance,) and writing stupid resumes about myself, (duh, Katie. What else would they be about?) for said college applications and ... other applications.

And yes, Mama, I have been sleeping late too. I like to think of these months as the Last Semester Containing The Freedom To Sleep Late. Or the LSCTFTSL. Whichever you prefer.

And I've been reading. And exercising. (shocking, I know.) Making resolutions. Reading through the Bible chronologically. Getting Red Cross training. (It was quite an experience, let me tell you.) Writing letters again, which feels good. I love mail, whether I'm sending or receiving. There's just something about a nice, plump envelope, preferably sealed with sealing wax, and a trifle battered around the edges after being put through who-knows-what in the multiple post offices of the world.

In other words, i've been Living Life. Not perfectly... in fact, so far from perfectly I don't even like to think about the lack of perfection.



And now for the News. (That was just the introduction, in case you were wondering.)

Most of you know by now, (this is one of those RARE cases when info goes onto the computer after it's communicated by actually speaking,) that I've been applying to work in an AIDS orphanage in Ethiopia. Today, I was accepted, (as long as my FBI background check comes back clear - which, um, it definitely should,) and so Lord willing I'll be moving to Ethiopia April-ish and coming home late July-ish. (The dates are still tentative.)

The reality of this hasn't totally sunk in yet. I've been carefully keeping myself from getting too excited or too nervous, making myself remember that it was so not a done deal. Now, it kinda is.

And I'm excited.

And a wee bit terrified.

There's so much going on in my mind and my heart about this whole thing - about how God led me to this when I really was NOT expecting to be led here, how He's opened door after door for me, how my family has encouraged me, prayed for me, not freaked out at all that I'm going to a third world country by myself, how my heart is already so in love with and so burdened for the children I will be with, (they're all HIV positive,) - and above all, how it all comes back to Christ's faithfulness.

Through the working towards this, the waiting, (that was definitely the hardest part, mostly because I expected the wait to be much longer than it was,) and the uncertainty about what exactly the next few months will hold, (all I really know is: they'll be different from anything I've ever lived before!) Christ has been my Friend, my Helper. He has given me the grace to trust Him, to rest in Him, and oh, how sweet it is to dwell in the shadow of the Most High!



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This is a very broad overview of what all is going on, and you'll hear much more in bits and snippets through out the next weeks and months, but I wanted to tell everyone a little about it, because 1. everyone will know eventually, so they might as well hear it here, and 2. please pray for me. I need prayer right now, I will need prayer every step of the way. I can't tell you how much it means to know that I have friends who love me enough to faithfully bring me before our Father's throne.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Her priorities are... a wee bit crooked.

While watching Jaws with Eleanor and Julia:

A little boy prepares to go into the ocean. The ominous music begins. We catch a glimpse of The Fin. His mother tells him she'll see him in ten minutes. (Yeah, right.)

Just as he's joyfully rushing into the surf... towards his unavoidable doom... a dog runs into the water.



And Eleanor says,

"OH NO! The poor doggy is gonna get eaten!!"




The dog, Ellie? We're worried about the dog here?

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

I do too, Isaiah. I do too.

Yesterday, Isaiah ran up and pointed to a picture of Daddy, saying

"I want Papa to come see me at my house! And then come to Marmee's house!"

Monday, January 3, 2011

An Expotition.

According to my mamaw--and affirmed by mama, (who assures me that she picked cotton in close proximity to it)-- there's an old, abandoned cemetery behind our neighborhood cat lady's house. Mrs. Cat-lady claims it's impossible to get to, because of all the thorn bushes, but Courtney and I braved the cold and the thorns yesterday in search of said cemetery, because apparently I have a relative buried there whose name is Alfred Smith. And I want to see Alfred's grave. (Incidentally, I won't be passing on that family name to any of my sons.)

It was impossible to get to, not because of the thorns, but because we couldn't find it. Yeah. That's a downer for you, especially since we had waded through many wicked patches of brambles and briars and my thighs were bleeding and stinging like crazy and my socks were full of prickly things.

Therefore, we decided to return not the way from whence we came, in hopes of stumbling over some adventure that would make the afternoon worthwhile. There's a section of about ten or fifteen fields grouped together and separated by fences and a nice, impenetrable gnarl of brambles and small trees, and we were on the opposite corner of this section from where we needed to be, in a field hemmed in by a deep gully.

We headed in the general direction of home, but eventually the realization sunk in that we were either gonna have to cross the gully, (which had really steep, brush-covered sides and was filled with murky, stagnant water, by the way,) or go all the way to the road and go home the long way. You can imagine that we didn't pick the long way. 'Cause I'm all about saving steps for more important things, like walking in the kitchen to make the fourth pot of hot tea in one day.

We discovered a way across the gully that seemed two ounces less covered in undergrowth than the rest of the bank, and our descent began. Believe me, you wish there had been a video camera. A true highlight of the day was when I was precariously suspended over the water, clutching a none-too-strong vine and trying to keep my footing in Crocs on the very muddy bank, and my phone rang. Yes, I know. And since it was my violin student who was supposed to be at my house in twenty minutes, I had to answer and hear all about her Christmas and the clumsy men who were putting in windows at her house, all while Courtney stood calmly above me, saying, "That vine isn't very sturdy, you know. I think that vine is slipping."

Yes, thank you, Courtney. Very helpful.

After we were safely across the gully, (without getting a drop of murky water on us; who's proud of us??) and Courtney got a hand full of scratches because she felt left out that my thigh got some scratches and her's didn't, (yes, I'm being sarcastic,) we tramped through four more fields, one of which had overgrown hay literally up to our noses, (my socks were solid brown with fuzz when we got through that,) explored around an abandoned, falling-in wooden house, went over a suspiciously green swathe of grass, ("why is that grass so green?" "oh, because we're ankle deep in mud now, maybe that's why,") climbed over more barbed wire fences than I care to remember, (without a single cut, mind you,) and clambered over a rusty gate, we arrived at home, windblown and cold, with nothing to show for our adventure except some nasty scratches and a bunch of memories.

It was worth it.