There was a baby boy. He was gorgeous. Mom and Dad thought he was perfect. They couldn't kiss him enough, hold him close enough, sing to him sweetly enough. This baby was loved.
He grew to be a toddler. He was still gorgeous, but mischief began to gleam in his beautiful baby eyes. He didn't want to eat his vegetables. He emptied all the folded clothes out of drawers. He colored on walls. He fell and skinned his knees. Mom and Dad thought it was a good thing he was so cute.
He kept growing. He discovered the world was his to conquer. As his intellect and talent grew, so did his capacity to make a difference in his world. He found confidence in a job done right, humility in the gift of a second chance, and love in the serving hands that ministered to him.
He could be anything he wanted. Nothing could stop him. Any dream was his for the taking. His hands, when guided by God, could shape destinies and affect change in the future of the world. The magnitude of his potential was incalculable.
He thought long and hard about what he wanted the most. He turned down admiration, applause, and affectation to follow his greatest dream and fulfill the supreme grandeur of his divine creation.
He became a father.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Race of a Lifetime
I received an email from my angel mother today. So did ten other people.
She was feeling sad. Her baby has just graduated from the sixth grade. Do you know what that means?
For "thirty-two consecutive years" my mother has had a child (usually several children) in elementary school.
Thirty-two years!!! Think of it! I'm sure--even with my wild imagination--I don't fully comprehend the long race that represents.
Nightly reading packets to sign, class parties, multiplication memorization, state reports, class plays with poor sound systems, morning rush to the bus, book reports, sack lunches with heart felt notes written on napkins, clean clothes and well-coifed hair before 7 am, after school snacks, states and capitals, parent-teacher conferences, Hope of America, lost library books, teacher appreciation week, spelling lists, geography bees, art projects, forgotten books and lunches. . .
Years upon years of hurdle after hurdle, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time.
And when she finished the race, there were no camera crews, no medals, no cash prizes.
Just eleven children in the stand, cheering, applauding, praising her blessed, blessed name.
For those eleven children, her thirty-two years made ALL the difference.
Her efforts, sacrifice, tears, and love that went into those many, many. . .many sleep deprived years will go largely unheralded by the world.
But isn't that the way of it for angels?
She was feeling sad. Her baby has just graduated from the sixth grade. Do you know what that means?
For "thirty-two consecutive years" my mother has had a child (usually several children) in elementary school.
Thirty-two years!!! Think of it! I'm sure--even with my wild imagination--I don't fully comprehend the long race that represents.
Nightly reading packets to sign, class parties, multiplication memorization, state reports, class plays with poor sound systems, morning rush to the bus, book reports, sack lunches with heart felt notes written on napkins, clean clothes and well-coifed hair before 7 am, after school snacks, states and capitals, parent-teacher conferences, Hope of America, lost library books, teacher appreciation week, spelling lists, geography bees, art projects, forgotten books and lunches. . .
Years upon years of hurdle after hurdle, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time.
And when she finished the race, there were no camera crews, no medals, no cash prizes.
Just eleven children in the stand, cheering, applauding, praising her blessed, blessed name.
For those eleven children, her thirty-two years made ALL the difference.
Her efforts, sacrifice, tears, and love that went into those many, many. . .many sleep deprived years will go largely unheralded by the world.
But isn't that the way of it for angels?
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
He's turned them all.
Don't get me wrong. I want to be a mother. The pursuit of raising our children to be happy, well-adjusted, intelligent, contributing adults is my life's labor.
Usually my husband backs me up on this. But sometimes, I feel as if Mom's training takes us one step forward and Dad's influence takes us two steps back.
For example, the other night, dinner began with me quizzing the children on the mnemonic devices for the Great Lakes and the planets in our solar system. We quickly digressed.
Faster than you can say "Brains!", our topics went from Lake Huron, to Pluto the un-planet, to the fog on the road today, to the perfect weather conditions for a zombie apocalypse.
"I hope the zombies don't come out," our seven-year-old son said in a grave, somber voice. He had experienced the low and quick-moving fog first hand, and I guess this translated to the inevitable zombie onslaught.
Dad admitted that it would indeed be bad if zombies came out, but snatching up the teaching moment, he assured our young brood with the plain facts.
"With zombies," he explained, "it all comes down to ammo. You have to have enough ammo to hold off the zombie hoard." And with a smirk on his face, he added, "We could hold off the zombie hoard for quite some time."
Oh, good, I thought. Since that's resolved, let's talk about my blooming dahlias.
Our seven-year-old then revealed his zombie slaying protocol. "I would just dress up like a zombie, pretend to be one of them, and then ambush them from behind."
"That would work. . .as long as they don't smell you," Dad pointed out.
Our oldest quickly offered the solution. "Just use zombie oderant."
Our oldest revealed his tactic. "I would use my bow and arrow."
Dad encouraged, "A bow and arrow is actually a great choice, because you can reuse an arrow to kill more zombies."
Our oldest daughter tried again, "Who wants to camp like a zombie?" But her question fell on deaf ears.
Then our seven-year-old son suggested another plan. "We should use our MAC 10."
"Well, if we did that," clarified Dad, "we wouldn't have it on fully automatic, because that would waste ammo."
Well, let's use some of it and just shoot me now.
Our daughter offered the final question, "Who wants to eat some Freddy?" At which, my young family joined in a rousing chorus of, "All we want to do is eat your brains!" My toddler and infant daughters laughed heartily at the joy of it all.
My first mistake was trying to raise intellects. I should've seen this coming. Smart brains are infinitely more nutritious and delicious than dumb brains.
So they say. I wouldn't know. I haven't been turned yet.
You want proof my brain is still intact? Just ask me the names of the Great Lakes.
Usually my husband backs me up on this. But sometimes, I feel as if Mom's training takes us one step forward and Dad's influence takes us two steps back.
For example, the other night, dinner began with me quizzing the children on the mnemonic devices for the Great Lakes and the planets in our solar system. We quickly digressed.
Faster than you can say "Brains!", our topics went from Lake Huron, to Pluto the un-planet, to the fog on the road today, to the perfect weather conditions for a zombie apocalypse.
"I hope the zombies don't come out," our seven-year-old son said in a grave, somber voice. He had experienced the low and quick-moving fog first hand, and I guess this translated to the inevitable zombie onslaught.
Dad admitted that it would indeed be bad if zombies came out, but snatching up the teaching moment, he assured our young brood with the plain facts.
"With zombies," he explained, "it all comes down to ammo. You have to have enough ammo to hold off the zombie hoard." And with a smirk on his face, he added, "We could hold off the zombie hoard for quite some time."
Oh, good, I thought. Since that's resolved, let's talk about my blooming dahlias.
Our seven-year-old then revealed his zombie slaying protocol. "I would just dress up like a zombie, pretend to be one of them, and then ambush them from behind."
"That would work. . .as long as they don't smell you," Dad pointed out.
Our oldest quickly offered the solution. "Just use zombie oderant."
Wanting to be part of the happy conversation, our five-year-old daughter announced, "You have to eat your bacon, Gilbert."
Poor dear, I thought. She just wants to have a voice. I'm with her. Let's talk about bacon.
Our oldest revealed his tactic. "I would use my bow and arrow."
Dad encouraged, "A bow and arrow is actually a great choice, because you can reuse an arrow to kill more zombies."
Our oldest daughter tried again, "Who wants to camp like a zombie?" But her question fell on deaf ears.
Then our seven-year-old son suggested another plan. "We should use our MAC 10."
"Well, if we did that," clarified Dad, "we wouldn't have it on fully automatic, because that would waste ammo."
Well, let's use some of it and just shoot me now.
Our daughter offered the final question, "Who wants to eat some Freddy?" At which, my young family joined in a rousing chorus of, "All we want to do is eat your brains!" My toddler and infant daughters laughed heartily at the joy of it all.
My first mistake was trying to raise intellects. I should've seen this coming. Smart brains are infinitely more nutritious and delicious than dumb brains.
So they say. I wouldn't know. I haven't been turned yet.
You want proof my brain is still intact? Just ask me the names of the Great Lakes.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Dinner on the High Seas
I guess I'll just have to level with myself and admit that I occasionally overestimate our dining manners.
The Vista Dining Room on the ms Westerdam is gorgeous: a sweeping spiral staircase stands in the middle of the room, gracefully joining both the upper and lower levels. Leather-seated chairs with a rich brocade back circle each table. Glimmering dishes, goblets, and silverware are perfectly poised atop their gleaming, white table linens. Each tower of plates has an artfully folded cloth napkin which changes shape every night.
The service is just as luxurious. A long row of hosts lines the entrance of the room, and each one bows to you in welcome. One leads you to your table and ushers you to your personal dining steward, who seats you, places your napkin in your lap, asks what you will be drinking, and sets tonight's menu in your unsuspecting, yet ready, hands.
I'm a mother with five children aged ten and under. I never eat my meal when it's hot. I serve everyone else first. My shirt doubles as a napkin. So do my pants. And my face. We use plastic, colored table wear with mismatched utensils whose prongs are frayed and poking out at the perfect angles to rip up your tongue. Dinner conversation is mostly me trying to convince everyone that your left hand goes in your lap, and you hold your fork like this; you really love this meal, so stop complaining; we don't throw our vegetables on the floor, or on our brother's plate, or on our father's face; cookies are for finishers; I'm not offering my lap as an alternative to your chair tonight; for heaven's sake, will everyone please stop humming!
What I 'm trying relate is, we were a mite out of our league.
But blinded by the pomp of the circumstance, I did not tell this to our steward, Alvin. I should have stopped the procession with a confession about the menu, dinnerware, and state of the diners that we are accustomed to in our Nelson Dining Room, and accepted my defeat by retreating to the buffet line on the Lido deck. But intoxicated by the celebrity of it all, I kept mum and tried my best to act the part.
And heaven bless us, we did our best, but the odds were against us, and I fear we blew our cover.
Wednesday night at table 222 began in the usual way, with my three-year-old daughter pulling the bread basket over to her, insisting on buttering her own piece with three tablespoons of butter, deciding that was gross, throwing it onto her big brother's plate, and finishing her nightly ritual by ripping out the centers of four pieces of artisan bread whilst splaying crumbs everywhere.
Alvin didn't flinch. This was night five, and he was used to her by now. He brought over a silver tool, and with three quick flicks of his wrist, he successfully gathered every bread crumb before he placed her appetizer in front of her.
This left me to enjoy my four course meal in a crumb-free environment, but by course two, I could sense we were going downhill faster than usual.
The girls were whining and thrashing around in excess, and after a closer inspection, I was sure they had contracted a nasty case of conjunctivitis. What could I do but put on a brave face, eat my meal with a whirlwind of knife and fork, and pray that we could get out of there before we spread it any further?
On edge, my eyes darted about the diners at our table, trying to channel my Spidey Senses and catch any infractions before we were caught and arrested for impersonating royalty. When the girls finally settled into their entrees and their whining stopped, I decided I could relax a little.
But by the end of course three, it happened.
My mother, who was sitting across the table from me, motioned to me with a panicked look on her face. I followed her gestures to see my oldest daughter, with a handful of table cloth in each hand, fiercely rubbing her itchy eyes, which were now spewing forth copious amounts of yellow eye matter at an alarming rate.
I leaned over to my husband and in a deliberate whisper I told him what was going on. I was careful not to move my lips so that if other diners were watching (they were always watching!), they wouldn't have any idea that we were living the movie Outbreak.
Scraping together all the parenting wisdom and experience we could muster, we decided that when dessert came, one of us would nonchalantly drip chocolate sauce over the table cloth in a large, glaring arc so as to ensure it would be laundered before the later diners of table 222 came to replace us. For extra measure, we decided one would use chocolate sauce, and one would use strawberry sauce.
We didn't have to enact that charade though. The children beat us to it.
By the end of dessert, one son had dripped his dessert sauce everywhere, the other son had spilled ten ounces of apple juice down the middle of the table, and the youngest daughter had dripped cream all over her dining area.
When I pushed away from the table and stood to leave, it was all I could do to not run from the crime scene. With hot tears stinging my eyes, I had to admit to myself that I was not a celebrity, and even worse, now I was sure that everyone in the Vista Dining Room knew that, too.
As penance for ruining a perfectly good table cloth, when I got to my room, I called room service and ordered a nice big slice of humble pie...sans linen.
The Vista Dining Room on the ms Westerdam is gorgeous: a sweeping spiral staircase stands in the middle of the room, gracefully joining both the upper and lower levels. Leather-seated chairs with a rich brocade back circle each table. Glimmering dishes, goblets, and silverware are perfectly poised atop their gleaming, white table linens. Each tower of plates has an artfully folded cloth napkin which changes shape every night.
The service is just as luxurious. A long row of hosts lines the entrance of the room, and each one bows to you in welcome. One leads you to your table and ushers you to your personal dining steward, who seats you, places your napkin in your lap, asks what you will be drinking, and sets tonight's menu in your unsuspecting, yet ready, hands.
I'm a mother with five children aged ten and under. I never eat my meal when it's hot. I serve everyone else first. My shirt doubles as a napkin. So do my pants. And my face. We use plastic, colored table wear with mismatched utensils whose prongs are frayed and poking out at the perfect angles to rip up your tongue. Dinner conversation is mostly me trying to convince everyone that your left hand goes in your lap, and you hold your fork like this; you really love this meal, so stop complaining; we don't throw our vegetables on the floor, or on our brother's plate, or on our father's face; cookies are for finishers; I'm not offering my lap as an alternative to your chair tonight; for heaven's sake, will everyone please stop humming!
What I 'm trying relate is, we were a mite out of our league.
But blinded by the pomp of the circumstance, I did not tell this to our steward, Alvin. I should have stopped the procession with a confession about the menu, dinnerware, and state of the diners that we are accustomed to in our Nelson Dining Room, and accepted my defeat by retreating to the buffet line on the Lido deck. But intoxicated by the celebrity of it all, I kept mum and tried my best to act the part.
And heaven bless us, we did our best, but the odds were against us, and I fear we blew our cover.
Wednesday night at table 222 began in the usual way, with my three-year-old daughter pulling the bread basket over to her, insisting on buttering her own piece with three tablespoons of butter, deciding that was gross, throwing it onto her big brother's plate, and finishing her nightly ritual by ripping out the centers of four pieces of artisan bread whilst splaying crumbs everywhere.
Alvin didn't flinch. This was night five, and he was used to her by now. He brought over a silver tool, and with three quick flicks of his wrist, he successfully gathered every bread crumb before he placed her appetizer in front of her.
This left me to enjoy my four course meal in a crumb-free environment, but by course two, I could sense we were going downhill faster than usual.
The girls were whining and thrashing around in excess, and after a closer inspection, I was sure they had contracted a nasty case of conjunctivitis. What could I do but put on a brave face, eat my meal with a whirlwind of knife and fork, and pray that we could get out of there before we spread it any further?
On edge, my eyes darted about the diners at our table, trying to channel my Spidey Senses and catch any infractions before we were caught and arrested for impersonating royalty. When the girls finally settled into their entrees and their whining stopped, I decided I could relax a little.
But by the end of course three, it happened.
My mother, who was sitting across the table from me, motioned to me with a panicked look on her face. I followed her gestures to see my oldest daughter, with a handful of table cloth in each hand, fiercely rubbing her itchy eyes, which were now spewing forth copious amounts of yellow eye matter at an alarming rate.
I leaned over to my husband and in a deliberate whisper I told him what was going on. I was careful not to move my lips so that if other diners were watching (they were always watching!), they wouldn't have any idea that we were living the movie Outbreak.
Scraping together all the parenting wisdom and experience we could muster, we decided that when dessert came, one of us would nonchalantly drip chocolate sauce over the table cloth in a large, glaring arc so as to ensure it would be laundered before the later diners of table 222 came to replace us. For extra measure, we decided one would use chocolate sauce, and one would use strawberry sauce.
We didn't have to enact that charade though. The children beat us to it.
By the end of dessert, one son had dripped his dessert sauce everywhere, the other son had spilled ten ounces of apple juice down the middle of the table, and the youngest daughter had dripped cream all over her dining area.
When I pushed away from the table and stood to leave, it was all I could do to not run from the crime scene. With hot tears stinging my eyes, I had to admit to myself that I was not a celebrity, and even worse, now I was sure that everyone in the Vista Dining Room knew that, too.
As penance for ruining a perfectly good table cloth, when I got to my room, I called room service and ordered a nice big slice of humble pie...sans linen.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Pretty for a Day
You might want to sit down before I tell you this next thing.
I got ready today.
Something came over me; I don't know what. Maybe it was out of love for my husband; I felt he deserved a reminder about the babe he married. Maybe it was out of my sense of duty; I knew that band practice was at my house, and it would probably be good if it looked like I cared about myself. And still maybe, it was out of nostalgia; it had been three hundred and sixty-four days since the last time I was this thorough, so I figured it was just plain time.
But whatever the reason, my shower, curled hair, and makeup-ed face took me forty-five minutes, which time was more excruciating than the fifty-nine minute workout I did this morning. (Not lying about that.)
Have you ever experienced something where you can't help but think about the people who do it every single day? That was me today. The mind reels that there are really some women out there who spend hours on themselves--daily. This floors me. What would that be like?
My husband didn't say a thing about how I looked. He just liked it when I bent over to pick something up. No change there. No matter how dressed up I get, it will always be his second favorite look on me.
When I came out of my room, my oldest daughter looked at me like I had committed the ultimate betrayal. "Where are you going?" she demanded.
My son came to talk to me, and I smiled warmly at him. His facial expression belied no feeling of shock. He asked me his question and moved on. How could he totally miss my bright pink shirt, stylish leggings, and well-coifed hair?
My baby looked at me like I was a stranger. When I saw my reflection, I saw that same look in someone else's painted eyes.
When I went to the super market to buy a chicken, I heard some heckling from behind the counter. I was sure it wasn't for me; I continued comparing expiration dates on whole-chicken carcasses. The chatter continued, and I finally looked up. My friends were working the butcher block today, and they noticed the change. "I haven't seen you in a while. You look good." She was complimentary, and shocked. It was shocking, I know. She was right about that.
Here's what my experiment today taught me. Even though there may have been some astounded countenances, the respect and love I was given was the same as every other day. I am beyond grateful for the people who love me the way I am--sweaty, showered, dirty, clean, tired, rested, joyful, sad, brooding, exuberant, off-key, or operatic. Nothing feels better than to be loved for who I truly am-- except to love someone for who he truly is.
At the end of my day, I showered again, washed the gel out of my hair, scrubbed the makeup off my face, slipped into my husband's T-shirt, and crawled into my familiar bed. It was good to be my exhausted, clean, content self again.
And now that I have three hundred sixty-four days until I have to run that marathon again, I'm gonna go work on my personality and character. I know for myself that though you can tame wild locks and moisturize thirsty, wrinkled skin, no matter how you dress it up, an ugly heart is always ugly.
And a beautiful soul is always beautiful, and there's no masking that.
I got ready today.
Something came over me; I don't know what. Maybe it was out of love for my husband; I felt he deserved a reminder about the babe he married. Maybe it was out of my sense of duty; I knew that band practice was at my house, and it would probably be good if it looked like I cared about myself. And still maybe, it was out of nostalgia; it had been three hundred and sixty-four days since the last time I was this thorough, so I figured it was just plain time.
But whatever the reason, my shower, curled hair, and makeup-ed face took me forty-five minutes, which time was more excruciating than the fifty-nine minute workout I did this morning. (Not lying about that.)
Have you ever experienced something where you can't help but think about the people who do it every single day? That was me today. The mind reels that there are really some women out there who spend hours on themselves--daily. This floors me. What would that be like?
My husband didn't say a thing about how I looked. He just liked it when I bent over to pick something up. No change there. No matter how dressed up I get, it will always be his second favorite look on me.
When I came out of my room, my oldest daughter looked at me like I had committed the ultimate betrayal. "Where are you going?" she demanded.
My son came to talk to me, and I smiled warmly at him. His facial expression belied no feeling of shock. He asked me his question and moved on. How could he totally miss my bright pink shirt, stylish leggings, and well-coifed hair?
My baby looked at me like I was a stranger. When I saw my reflection, I saw that same look in someone else's painted eyes.
When I went to the super market to buy a chicken, I heard some heckling from behind the counter. I was sure it wasn't for me; I continued comparing expiration dates on whole-chicken carcasses. The chatter continued, and I finally looked up. My friends were working the butcher block today, and they noticed the change. "I haven't seen you in a while. You look good." She was complimentary, and shocked. It was shocking, I know. She was right about that.
Here's what my experiment today taught me. Even though there may have been some astounded countenances, the respect and love I was given was the same as every other day. I am beyond grateful for the people who love me the way I am--sweaty, showered, dirty, clean, tired, rested, joyful, sad, brooding, exuberant, off-key, or operatic. Nothing feels better than to be loved for who I truly am-- except to love someone for who he truly is.
At the end of my day, I showered again, washed the gel out of my hair, scrubbed the makeup off my face, slipped into my husband's T-shirt, and crawled into my familiar bed. It was good to be my exhausted, clean, content self again.
And now that I have three hundred sixty-four days until I have to run that marathon again, I'm gonna go work on my personality and character. I know for myself that though you can tame wild locks and moisturize thirsty, wrinkled skin, no matter how you dress it up, an ugly heart is always ugly.
And a beautiful soul is always beautiful, and there's no masking that.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
A Little Bit of Hope
Overwhelmed!
It takes everything I have just to keep my family alive. I have no extra time for a project of any kind. Last week, over the course of four days, I spent about twenty-four hours on a project. This week, you can tell that by looking at me/my house/my dogs/my fridge.
It doesn't help that my baby is getting bigger, and every time I rock her to sleep and stare at that sweet face, my mind fills with this terrible commentary, "This might be your last daughter--ever! Enjoy it while you ca...nevermind. She's practically an adult." My husband and other children find me crying about it all the time.
I'm sure the fix to all this is a very long nap, and several days of an early bedtime. ((Snort!)) I might as well wish for a pumpkin to turn into a second front-loading washing machine.
But something wonderful happened to me today! Right when I needed it to! That is why I know God knows me and loves me.
In the midst of the chaos, the dog yelled that someone was at the door. When I went to answer it, there was a box for me. But that's not even the good part.
There--lying in the dirt--pushing through the ice, decaying leaves, and large rocks, were the leaf buds of my tulips!
I couldn't have felt His love more if God had given me a hug Himself. And I couldn't help but see the symbolism.
We may be buried alive, covered with soil and mulch and frozen dreams. But whatever the impossible burdens we are pushing through, there is hope!
Spring will come. We will grow. Our blossoms will be vibrant red. Even when the world is wintery, our souls can be full of life--warm, growing, and swelling with joy.
We just have to respond to the Son, and keep pushing through the dirt.
It takes everything I have just to keep my family alive. I have no extra time for a project of any kind. Last week, over the course of four days, I spent about twenty-four hours on a project. This week, you can tell that by looking at me/my house/my dogs/my fridge.
It doesn't help that my baby is getting bigger, and every time I rock her to sleep and stare at that sweet face, my mind fills with this terrible commentary, "This might be your last daughter--ever! Enjoy it while you ca...nevermind. She's practically an adult." My husband and other children find me crying about it all the time.
I'm sure the fix to all this is a very long nap, and several days of an early bedtime. ((Snort!)) I might as well wish for a pumpkin to turn into a second front-loading washing machine.
But something wonderful happened to me today! Right when I needed it to! That is why I know God knows me and loves me.
In the midst of the chaos, the dog yelled that someone was at the door. When I went to answer it, there was a box for me. But that's not even the good part.
There--lying in the dirt--pushing through the ice, decaying leaves, and large rocks, were the leaf buds of my tulips!
I couldn't have felt His love more if God had given me a hug Himself. And I couldn't help but see the symbolism.
We may be buried alive, covered with soil and mulch and frozen dreams. But whatever the impossible burdens we are pushing through, there is hope!
Spring will come. We will grow. Our blossoms will be vibrant red. Even when the world is wintery, our souls can be full of life--warm, growing, and swelling with joy.
We just have to respond to the Son, and keep pushing through the dirt.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
I Have a Dream
One of my favorite books is The Blue Castle by L. M. Montgomery. It made me realize that I had to first have a dream if I ever wanted it to come true. I started wondering what I could add to my world to make it even more beautiful. (Is that even possible?)
Here are my top ten dreams:
10. Building the perfect mudroom: Walls--floor to ceiling--of cubbies; coordinating and labeled bins; a spot for every shoe, glove, hat, and bag; a place to store all our helmets and boots (we have so many!); a big sink just for washing my dogs; a drain in the middle of the floor; and a door that shuts out the chaos from the rest of the house.
9. Sleeping until I awaken naturally. I've forgotten what that feels like.
8. Being the kind of beautiful that needs no makeup, hot rollers, or wrinkle cream.
7. My hair being restored to its former glory. It truly was my one beauty. (I guess it's time I buckle down on building my character, because it's quickly becoming all I have left.)
6. Having a long string of rainy days to curl up with some good classics and get lost in their pages.
5. Hiring a maid.
4. Getting the results I want from all this dieting and exercising.
3. Planting hundreds of tulips under my purple leaf plums.
2. Being a whiz at math. (I'm sure I can't even begin to imagine what kind of doors this would open for me.)
1. Clearly communicating the depth of my love for my husband and children. (I'm convinced this one will only come if I pray for it. So I do.)
Whether shallow, selfish, useful, possible, or just plain fun, sometimes, it's just good to have a dream to escape to.
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