Jesus loves me, this I know...

I adore my daughter.  I love her so much that when I think about it for very  long, I cry and my heart almost hurts from being so full.  When she screams because her mouth hurts from teeth coming in, I pick up her small form and hold her close.  She then wraps her little arms around my neck, puts her tiny fingers into my hair and her face into my neck.  I hold her and her body relaxes.  Her comfort brings me a peace such as I have never known.  I praise God with my whole being for bringing her into my life. 

I think about God.  It says in the Bible that a mother would sooner forget the baby at her breast than He would ever forget about us.  This is so profound that I cannot understand it.  I love my daughter with everything I am, so the idea that God loves me infinitely more is too great for me.

During times of grief, I felt lost.  I did not abandon God.  I would sooner believe that two plus two does not equal four than I would ever consider that God is not the great Creator, but I did not, could  not, understand how I fit into that scenario.  If we are to "cast all our cares upon Him", what do we do when there is no reply?

I think about my daughter.  Sometimes she struggles and becomes deeply frustrated if she can't accomplish her goal.  She gives me the pen to get the lid off for her.  I don't take it off.  She will make a mess and it is better that the lid stay on.  She obviously does not understand this and gets upset with me.  I usually pick her up and console her, but not always.  Other times, she falls down.  I try not to rush over to her to pick her up as she has to learn to get back up on her own.  Every time, however, I cannot help but go to her and watch over her.  I always want to pick her up and rock her and tell her it's alright, but sometimes, for her own good, I don't...  However, I am always there.

I think about God.  If it pains me as much as it does when my sweet girl cries because she's cutting teeth, and God loves me still more, how much does it hurt Him when I despair?  In my darkest moment, that is what I came to understand.  Jesus wept.  He wept because his beloved were in pain.  And through that, I knew that even if He does not save me from injury, He is watching over all the time, waiting and hoping for me to lift up my arms to Him and let Him comfort me.  He always there.  Always loving.  When I don't deserve it.  When it's just a little bump.  When it's a big bump.  Even when I don't "need" Him there...  Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty to attain.*

Thank You Lord for loving me enough to let me struggle.  Thank you for sunsets and chocolate cake.  Thank you for my husband.  Thank you for letting me be a mama.  Thank you for letting me See.  Thank you for choosing me.

God is good all the time.  All the time, God is good.

*Taken from my favorite Psalm, Psalm 139.

Part 2: Midnight Saboteur

Of late, I have been involved in some pretty serious contract negotiations with my thighs; they were quickly coming to an impasse and I had to act quickly to prevent disaster.  My unionized pants boycotted the talks and my skirts hinted at following suit.  Despite repeated attempts at a peace agreement, the atmosphere remained terse.  As such, Monsieur Epinard Salade, aka,  Thin Man, was called in to take over negotiations.

Initial advances were rejected by both parties.  Happily, Mr Salade lived up to his reputation and after a time, began to make progress.  I hoped to hope and breathed easier...but alas the situation was being threatened by a saboteur...

It was midnight.  All was quiet.  My family slept a peaceful and innocent sleep.  I awoke.  I knew not why.  Still groggy, I rolled over.  Then I heard it.  Someone or something was out there!  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, my ears perked and I lay as still as possible.  Then, horror of horrors, I heard my name, whispered with a sing-song menace.  I looked over to my husband for help.  His eyes were closed and his chest slowly rose and fell.  I was on my own.

I remained motionless as I considered my options.  By and by, I came to the conclusion that I must face this demon.  I must protect my family.  I must get out of bed.  As quietly as possible, I crept out of my safe haven.  Tip-toe-tip-toe, down the stairs I went.  At bottom, I straightened, tall and fearless.  The sickening raspy song continued.

Lights off, I walked through the living room.  On and on, I deftly avoided furniture.  I made no noise.  Turn.  Look.  It was coming from the kitchen!  I steadied myself, preparing for what was to come.  But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for what I was about to meet.

Squinting in the darkness, I saw a tiny beam of light.  I approached, listening hard.  I heard whispering.  I reached out a trembling hand and opened the refrigerator door.  Light flooded out, momentarily blinding me.  I covered my eyes.  I heard a tiny "ahem".  Wide-eyed and terrified, I looked into the great whiteness, searching for that which knew my name.

And there it was.  The tart.  The tart I'd so lovingly made for my husband.  Somehow, the strawberries I'd carefully placed on top of the pastry cream had rearranged into a terrible, yet delicious-looking, face.  The seeds had come off the berries to form pupils and the leaves I'd left on for a pretty garnish were now awkward eyebrows.  The strawberry halves fashioned an eerie smile.  It spoke.

"Bon soir, Madame.  'ow are you zis evening?"  I stared, mouth agape, shocked, terrified.  The smile widened.  "I was sinking about you and eet made me very sad to sink zat you 'ad not 'ad dessert.  You must be quite 'ungry."  It paused, waiting for a response.  Despite myself, I began to salivate.  The smile became a smirk.  "You know, I won't tell anyone if you 'ave zhoost a tee-ny, ti-ny piece."  Pause.  "You know you zat want one."

I looked around the shelves for brave and strong Epinard.  Where was he?  To my dismay, I saw that he'd been shoved into one of the bottom drawers.  Thin Man could not help me.  I steeled my voice and told the tart that in fact, I wasn't at all hungry, still completely satisfied from my dinner of skinless baked chicken and green beans.  The tart scoffed, the forced appearance of friendliness momentarily disappeared and the French accent waned for just a second.  "Oh don't be such a bairn."  It had made a mistake.  I could see that in it's beady eyed grimace.  But what was a "bairn"?

I closed the door to give myself a moment to think.  Mind racing, I fought to remember where I'd heard that word before.  Egad!  It was Scottish slang for "child".  But why would a Scottish tart be pretending to be French?

I had an epiphany.  Nodding to myself, I remembered a conversation with my husband I'd had years ago.  We were watching a football game between France and England and I noticed that the fans on both sides were virtually rabid in their support.  I asked why.  My husband, who is French, explained that after hundreds of years of wars between the two countries, despite the current peace, strong rivalries remain.  He said, "Now, the battles take place on the football field." 

I reopened the door and caught a glimpse the tart whispering feverishly with the German chocolate, who stopped immediately.  I eyed the chocolate suspiciously, but it simply looked away and began to whistle - quite an accomplishment, I must say.  I took my friend out of the drawer.  He was nervous and seemed to want to say more, but he merely thanked me.  I ignored the treacherous tart's attempts at further conversation and his German friend, who, upon realizing that I was not cooperating, tried to catch my attention.  I closed the door and went back upstairs, baffled but proud of my self-restraint.

As I slowly walked the walk of the victorious, I knew I had to tell my husband that the battle is apparently no longer only on the pitch; allies are being made, lines drawn and someone out there has it in their mind to draw in the Americans. 

Beware, my fellow countrymen.  War is being declared on our thighs.  It is obviously some sort of devious plan, even if I'm not sure yet what that plan is.  Regardless, whatever your sentiments may be about the French or the British or the Germans, this battle is not ours.  Be strong.  Our backsides, or at the very least, our thighs, may very well depend upon it. 

*Translations: epinard = spinach, salade = salad, bon soir = good evening

Part 1: You let me by, I'll let you by.

A few years ago, a girlfriend of mine and I were talking about our thighs.  If you are a woman, I have no doubt that you understand this; if you are a man, maybe not.  At any rate, we were talking about the contract our thighs have with each other.  We discovered that the agreements were pretty much the same: "You let me by, I'll let you by."  Well, it would seem that the contract my thighs share is about up.

I've tried different tactics, including attempting to smooth things over by offering chocolate, as I know that both my thighs are quite partial to this little sweet.  Unfortunately, much to my surprise, I found that this particular goodie seemed to only add friction between the two parties.

I tried nice decorations, only to discover that my pants are part of a union and therefore refuse to cooperate.  They have even gone so far as to try to cut off the circulation to my feet.  Stupid pants.  Who needs 'em?  Instead, I am now sticking to my skirts.  Despite participating in a union of their own, they are actually quite happy to be providing a nice breezy experience.  However, my skirts aren't all fun and games, no sir-ee-bob.  They still go out of their way on occasion to show me that they could go on strike if they wanted to by cutting into my gut...but that's a story for a different day.

Now, when a contract is about to expire, all parties must reevaluate the terms.  I understand and support this as I want both of my thighs to be happy.  I can only hope that they will come to an arrangement, and soon, because the atmosphere is starting to feel a bit tense.  If not, we may very well have to send in the big guns - lettuce.  And let's face it, nobody wants to see that happen.

Note:  I must mention that the actual phrase of "you let me by, I'll let you by" is not my own.  My good friend Madalaine came up with that one over ten years ago and it was so funny that I remembered it.

The Monsters Next Door...and the Old Fart Within

I live in Scotland.  Scotland is very far north on the planet.  As such, during the summer, the hours of daylight are plentiful.  I have a next door neighbor.  Actually, I have two, but today we're only talking about one in particular.  The neighbors in question have two children - one toddler and one who must be about ten.  The ten year old is apparently the leader of the other neighborhood children.  Our neighbors also have a trampoline.  As we must all follow our leader of choice, the neighborhood children spend a lot of time in my neighbor's backyard.  On the trampoline.  Yelling.  Even at night.  When they should be sleeping.  When my baby needs to sleep.  You see where I'm going with this.

Ours' is a quiet neighborhood.  I love this.  It is a very small little village outside the bigger city.  There is little to no noise.  Except for on that trampoline.  Even at night.  When children should be sleeping.  Even when my baby needs to sleep and I am trying to get her to sleep.

And so there was my dilemma.  Do I say something?  The mother of the leader of the children once told me in passing that she didn't know why all the children came over to her house, but what could she do?  Many things she could do came to mind, but I felt the question was probably rhetorical, so I simply shrugged.  Later that night as the screeching continued until almost 10pm, my frustration grew.  I wanted, oh, how I wanted, to stomp over there and say, "For the love of pete, lady, shut those kids up!"  I didn't though.  I just rocked my sweet girl a little more firmly than I would have otherwise and muttered.  Oh, how I muttered. 

Once my sweetie was finally asleep, I went and big-fat chickened out.  I reasoned to myself that I don't want to be known as the neighborhood grouch and the daylight hours would be diminishing soon enough and with that, so would the inappropriate hours of screaming.

That was last month.  Now, in just one short month, the sun is setting much sooner and we've also had a lot of rain.  No fun to play on a wet trampoline in the dark. 

And the old fart in me smiles.

Let's see now...

This is a test of the emergency blogging system.  If this were an actual blog, you would find words written together to form ideas that were written to entertain, inspire and/or amuse but not to confuse.  Remember, this is only a test.  Beep.