A Week Later

The point is, it makes no sense. Not to rational people anyway. There's nothing about shooting young children multiple times that is supposed to make sense. It's an act of brutality the likes of which our nation has never seen.

There have been two times in Jeremy's life when his life hung in the balance. At six weeks of age, we discovered by accident that he had a heart defect. We didn't realize it until later, but our cardiologist let us know that we were 2 hours away from losing him. Several months later, he had a bad reaction to his heart medication and had to be flown on a Flight-for-Life helicopter to Lutheran General Hospital. (I was not allowed to accompany him.)

In both instances, I was sick with fear and grief. I am aware that this is only a small measure of what the parents of those children must be feeling. I was deeply affected by this tragedy. I was still impatient with my kids because I'm human; at the same time, I understood that those parents would have given everything to be impatient with their kids just one more time.

Back in August, just after the shootings in Aurora, Colorado, I blogged about how I felt there needed to be stricter gun laws. A comment was left saying, "if stricter gun laws are made, people will just find new ways to break them." (I'm paraphrasing a bit.) The gist of the argument is a collective shrug of shoulders that's akin to saying "boys will be boys."

I don't feel like that's an appropriate response to this. I was guilty of posting (and engaging in discussions on postings) about the need for stronger legislation on gun control. To be clear, I don't believe we should ban all guns. I understand that people hunt for game or to sustain their families. Farmers and ranchers use guns to help protect their flocks and herds.

My real problem is that people are not being honest about the purpose of guns. There were people posting things about Timothy McVeigh and John Wayne Gacy. They both, according to the posts, killed more children than the gunman in Newtown.

I am disturbed that we need to invoke the name of a terrorist and serial killer to try and minimize what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary. I am disturbed that none of my right-leaning friends want to verbalize the truth; guns are instruments of death.

When you head into the woods with a gun, you are not hoping to tickle the deer. When you use a gun to protect yourself in your home against an invader, you are saying that your life is more valuable than theirs. It's a zero-sum game, really. One person is going to die.

Yes, people kill one another with any number of instruments. One FB friend pointed out, the terrorists hijacked planes on 9/11 with just box cutters. Another said, when drunk drivers kill someone with their car, should cars be banned?

I will address both instances. First, after what happened on 9/11, flights were grounded for a week. Ten years later and I can't board a plane with so much as fingernail clippers. Anytime the TSA is found asleep on the job, we hear about it. There's an investigation. People are held accountable. Changes are made.

As for the drunk driver, they are held accountable. Driving privileges are just that-granted at the behest of the government. Failure to follow the rules means that one's license can be revoked. The person who kills someone with their car while drunk can be held criminally responsible. They can serve jail time.

The gun violence in America seems only to be skyrocketing. My husband, who majored in Political Science in college, informs me that the forefathers intended the Second Amendment as a way to give states the ability to form militias. Let's remember, back when the Constitution was framed, it probably took about 5 minutes between shots to reload a firearm.

I assert that the framers didn't intend for every Tom, Dick and Harriet to own a gun. Further, I believe they would be rolling over in their graves to hear the crimes against humanity being perpetrated in the name of the Second Amendment.

I return to my earlier posit; guns are used to end lives. Cars can end lives when used outside of safe parameters, when one does not follow the rules of the road, when the driver is distracted, etc. Cars are not manufactured for the purpose of killing people. Adam Lanza used the guns in exactly the way they were intended.

Anyone who buys a gun should know that the gun is a weapon of destruction. Even if someone is shot but not killed, a bullet can do far more damage to the human body than a knife, a length of rope or a lead pipe. Bullets shred organs on contact, shatter bones, lodge themselves deep into the body and cause ongoing damage.

Case in point? In China, the same day as the massacre at Sandy Hook, a man injured 22 people with a knife. Injured. Not killed, maimed, paralyzed, disfigured, but injured. If Mr. Lanza had entered that school with a knife, we would not be having this conversation. He would not have been able to kill 26 people with a knife in such a short amount of time. It just wouldn't have been possible.

The other post I kept seeing was that if just one person was carrying a concealed weapon, they could have ended the conflict sooner. Police and military personnel are trained extensively, for years, on how to use their firearms. Beyond going to target practice, they serve in real-life situations and have the opportunity to hone their skills.

I don't believe, outside of these two scenarios, that civilians are adequately trained or ready to fire a weapon at a moving target in a sea of smaller moving targets while under duress. I don't want an armed guard at my children's school. (I also can't get any of my right-leaning friends to tell me how we would pay to staff this position. Schools are already struggling to educate our children, I think the additional burden would break them.) I have faith that the police are the best option for protecting me against intruders or other criminals. I don't want anyone's (and I mean anyone's)blood on my hands. My fear is that even if I were trained appropriately, I could hit the wrong target. That's called murder and I don't want to give up my freedom for a bad decision.

(Also, please note that there were armed guards present at Columbine High School and they weren't able to stop the tragedy there.)

Now. The other issue our country doesn't want to address is mental health coverage and administration. We do not want to talk about mental health issues out loud in a public forum. We stigmatize people with mental health issues, make them the butt of our jokes, disinclude them from a discussion about mental health coverage and administration and then wonder why they don't seek help (and receive help). I struggle with depression. I can take as much medication for it as I want, but going to counseling is a logistical nightmare.

There's no infrastructure to help me. I am a housewife, I am involved in a couple of moms groups, but I hesitate to reach out for help. I feel like I'm burdening people by asking them to watch my kids. So I suffer, mostly isolated. There are no support groups for moms with depression. I'm not saying this to solicit help, I'm simply saying it is difficult for me, with health benefits, to seek treatment aside from pharmaceuticals.

How much more difficult is it for someone who has to work 3 jobs to put food on the table? For someone who works in corporate America, who is afraid it'll be viewed as a sign of weakness to seek counseling? For someone in the military, whose every move is documented and who is watched like a hawk by their fellow soldiers? No one wants to be in a foxhole with someone who's suicidal.

We need to have a frank discussion about mental health advocacy and administration. We need to strip away the stigma related to these issues. We need to let people know that it is okay to struggle with these issues. We need to stop the ridicule and the bullying and come to terms with the reality that we are, as a nation, very sick.

So this issue is two-pronged. I was disappointed that Wayne LaPierre blamed everybody else for what happened last Friday. I have started seeing some very frank PSAs about the dangers of smoking. I think if we had PSAs running with someone shooting a watermelon to demonstrate the power that guns hold, people might think twice about using them thoughtlessly.

Of course, what it comes down to is money. Those PSAs would never air; the gun lobby doesn't want anyone to slow the profits for the companies that it represents. That's what I find most disturbing. I am all for capitalism but I despise blind greed. I would have respected the NRA if they had accepted some amount of responsibility for what happened. They manufacture weapons that are designed for causing death (either human or animal). I feel like that's an honest assessment, not propaganda.

Finally, I want to speak out against those who say that this happened because God is not in the schools. I think this is an even more hurtful statement than people realize. Just because we are not praying at school doesn't mean that God is not there. I have plenty of Christian friends who teach in public schools. They pray for their students on a daily basis.

There were teachers at Sandy Hook who sacrificed their lives for the lives of countless innocent children. Isn't this a demonstration of God's love? Doesn't this show that God poured his grace on some of those children? I think it's heinous that Mike Huckabee is given free reign to spew vitriol about God not being there when he was standing next to each and every person there.

What's even more, I remember at least twice in the past two years that there were shootings in churches. If I'm correct, that's God's house. People invite him there every week. They visit church to commune with God. How is it, then, that the shootings happened there? By the previous statement's logic, God wasn't in those churches.

We will never eliminate murder in a world of imperfect, broken humans. There are no easy answers to this sickness. I firmly believe that violence begets violence. The NRA, the media, etc., have bred a culture of fear. The only thing that I know that replaces fear is faith and there is only one person in whom I feel my faith deserves to be placed. Even if we lived in a country where everyone acknowledged Jesus as their savior, we would still be having to deal with these kinds of issues. King David, who was known as a man after God's own heart, committed murder. Christians are not immune from this kind of tragedy and, as such, we shouldn't try to sell a bill of goods to people that says anything like that.

Ultimately, we can't apply our limited human understanding to something like this. It doesn't honor the memory of these fallen babies. We can only honor their memories by doing whatever we can to prevent this from happening again.

Lot in Common

I am participating in a Bible study about Genesis. I forget about the old Testament sometimes. It's been billed as a dry read, and I will admit there are some chapters and books that fit that bill. I'm not a fan of reading the genealogies, even though I know they are important to people of the Jewish faith.

I participated in a Beth Moore study about the patriarchs a few years ago. I didn't think that I would like Beth Moore--she's skinny, blonde and from the south--everything I'm not. She has an uncanny ability to talk right to you, even though she's addressing a room full of southern women.

I learned a lot about Genesis during that study and I was excited to dive into the book again. I didn't realize how much mercy there was in Genesis; it's woven through all the stories. Even in the story of Adam and Eve, there is mercy.

Right now we've started talking about Abram (later Abraham). He was called by God away from his home. God asked him to walk by faith through the desert. When he left his home, he asked if anyone wanted to come with him. His nephew, Lot, said that he did. They went out from Ur, to Haran, to Canaan, then Egypt and back to Canaan.

It was at this point that their possessions were so numerous that the land could not support their cattle, herds and people. So Abram decided that it was best that they separate. He gave Lot the opportunity to take first choice of where he would settle.

Lot looked around and decided he wanted to settle in the Jordan valley, specifically Sodom. Even those who don't have a vast knowledge of the Bible know that God eventually destroys Sodom because it's such an evil city.

I don't think most people can empathize with Lot, but I can. You see, what ends up happening is that Sodom is invaded and Lot is taken prisoner. Abram hears about this and decides to mount an army and go to his rescue. Most of the other women in my small group at BSF focused on Abram's end of the journey; I focused on Lot.

There are a lot of times I choose the easier, softer way. I choose the thing (food, indulgence, etc.) that looks delicious, looks appealing, looks beautfiul but that is really not what is the right thing for me. It doesn't mean I'm not a Christian, it just means I'm human. I have foibles. I like nice things. I don't want to have to think about living without my creature comforts. I imagine that's what went through Lot's mind, too. He wanted stability, he didn't want to live in a tent, he didn't want to be subject to (what he perceived) as God's whims.

The thing is, Lot enjoyed all of those comforts of the flesh but ended up missing out on God's full blessing. After Abram rescued him and restored him in Sodom, Lot stayed put! He decided (I think) that lightning couldn't strike twice and he was still better off in Sodom. He continued, for some time, to enjoy the "creature comforts" but ended up having to flee Sodom when it was clear that God intended to destroy it.

Abram, on the other, hand, got an extraordinary blessing. God told him that he would have descendants that were as numerous as the stars, that God would always protect him. He said no to the King of Sodom, who offered him inumerable riches. He knew that even though they were flashy, they were temporal and not nearly as luxuriant as what God was offering him.

I'm Lot in so many ways. Even when God has shown me mercy, I choose to continue to live in sin. So when I read this story, I didn't focus on Abram's blessing--I focused on the mercy God showed Lot. He could have said, "well, Lot made his bed, he's got to deal with it." No, he said, "Lot is my child and I don't want to see him suffer." He could have walked away from Lot but what I love about my savior is that he never walks away from us, he never gives up on us. Even when those around us want to throw in the towel, God is always there waiting for us to turn to him.

There have been lonely, dark days in my life, where my family did turn me out (for good reason) and where I had no one to turn to. I had nobody who was interested in helping a hopeless case. But God sent a modern-day Abram in the form of a friend of mine. This friend, whom I have known since college, took me into her home (along with her husband) and gave me a place to sleep until I could get things figured out.

I am Lot because I continue to struggle with "lesser" sins today (there is no hierarchy for God when it comes to sin), but I live in eternal gratitude to the God who saw me in captivity and still was there to rescue me. I think those who have been snatched from the jaws of hell understand, in a way no one else can, what it's like to sit in God's lap. I am humbled by the love God shows me because the full weight of "while we were yet sinners, He died for us" has extra significance.

I am Lot, but every day I move farther away from Sodom.

eCommerce Frustration

About two months ago, I attended a class/demonstration at a friends house. It was for a company called whEat Real. Kim Nordin is the representative and she sells equipment from a company called L'Equip. Her goal is to educate people about what they're really eating and then help them make better choices.

I immediately fell for the products--the two major products she sells are the Bosch Universal Mixer and Nutrimill grinder. Using those two pieces of equipment, one is able to grind their own wheat berries and make healthy, nutrient-rich wheat bread. It's unlike store-bought bread because there is markedly less sodium (the bread aisle is one of the biggest offenders when it comes to sodium content), more protein, more fiber, more nutrients. 

The only problem for me was the price. Kim and L'Equip are exclusive sellers of the Bosch. It is much more powerful than a KitchenAid and has a greater capacity. It boasts 800W of power and can mix quadruple recipes of cookies without batting an eye. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I guess, for KitchenAid), my KitchenAid was very much alive and kicking.

I didn't even mention the Bosch to Brian after the first demonstration. I knew he would be resistant to the idea of spending so much on a new mixer when I have one that works just fine. Luckily for me, we hosted a demonstration in our home and he was hooked.

We made the plunge-decided to purchase the Bosch. One of the beautiful things is that we were able to do a payment plan. The only stumbling block was my KitchenAid. We didn't *need* to sell it, but it would be great to sell it and use that money as a month's payment. 

I listed it on Craigslist for two weeks straight. I got one nibble from someone living in Chicago but it fell through. After that, I sat on it for about a month. A friend of mine who had also taken the plunge listed her KitchenAid on eBay. Last week, I finally got myself together and listed it on eBay. 

I have had some moderate success with selling things on eBay. Shipping is always a tricky thing, but for the most part I have had happy customers and great feedback. I sat patiently for a week to see what would happen. The auction ended at a fair price (about what I had been asking on Craigslist) and included shipping costs.

Now, however, I'm grinding my teeth. The auction ended yesterday and I've had no payment from the buyer. I am frustrated because it feels as if I'm cursed in trying to unload this machine! It works perfectly well, I have never had to replace anything on it or have it serviced, it's in great shape and I just want someone to buy the damn thing!

I am hopeful that this person will respond in kind very soon and I can be down to just one mixer in the house. 

Sour Stomach

I'm typically not a person whose anxiety rules them in the physical realm. I didn't get nervous before orchestra concerts, I'm not one whose heart races before public speaking. Tonight, though, for reasons I can't understand, I am leading a meeting and my stomach is churning.

It's with my girls from Mothers & More. They are lovely women, I've been a part of the group for 5 years and their leader for almost 1. There's nothing inherently nerve-wracking about meeting with them; they are a laid-back group of women who enjoy a good time.

I'm not sure why, then, my stomach is a swirl of acid and disrest. Let's hope all goes well and my stomach chooses to settle down by bedtime.

Humongous Growth

I took a huge step outside myself today. It was not always pretty but the end result was good. I decided that I needed to make sugar cookies. It was something my mom did with my brother and me; I felt I needed to start the tradition with a new generation.

There are several issues with baking. One, it takes time. My kids have no concept of time. I have to be very careful when I tell them that we're going somewhere. They don't know what it means when I say, "we're going to D'da and Bubba's house after naps." Meaning, I might say 5 PM but they don't understand what that means. All they hear is "after naps." So from the time Doug wakes up until 5 PM, I'm asked every 5 minutes if we are, in fact, going to D'da Bubba's house.

The same principle holds true for cookies. Sugar cookies are particularly tricky because the dough has to be refrigerated for two hours before the cookies can be made. I mixed the dough before Doug went down for nap, then set the timer on the oven for the two hours. (I admit, I fudged it a bit to buy me some more shut-eye.)

I managed to dodge in and out of a haze of sleep for a while, but the timer blasted me awake. Without skipping a beat, Jeremy asked, "mommy, are the cookies ready yet?" I explained to him that I hadn't even made them yet, that they needed to be made and baked.

I hadn't prepared correctly, though, because I still had to clear off the kitchen table to have enough space to work. At regular intervals, I was asked if the cookies were ready yet. I did my best to answer cheerfully that I was working as fast as I could to get them done, but being peppered with questions like that can be like being kicked to death by a rabbit-slow and painful.

Eventually, I started rolling out the dough. I remember my mom teaching me to be judicious with the placement of the cookie cutters. I started at the edge of dough and did my best to use all of it well. The kids excitedly told me which cookie cutters to use and meanwhile flitted about the room, playing with their toys.

The other factor pulling at me was Doug. He doesn't make it easy to work in the kitchen. He especially doesn't understand that the oven poses a substantial risk to his life. Midway through baking the cookies, I heard him crying and had to make a decision. I wanted to finish baking as quickly as possible, but I knew getting Doug would be counterproductive.

So, in the midst of being peppered with questions, I soldiered on. The kids' interest in the endeavour started to wane, but I wanted to make the memory with them. I don't know from where I summoned it, but I kept a smile on my face the whole time. I was cheerful and happy and very much "the happy housewife, circa 1950."

We took a break for dinner so that they wouldn't be sick from eating cookies. I promised them that after dinner we could decorate the cookies (which I knew was going to be interesting). I fought with them to eat their veggies and other food. Then I got to work making the frosting. We had gone to Jewel to buy sprinkles and that was all they could think about.

Decorating the cookies became more about the sprinkles than anything else. For some reason, Jeremy felt the need to have his cars dive in there, the kids comingled the sprinkles and the spoons (that were supposed to be used for decorating) were carrying on their own storylines. One thing I'll say for my kids, they have imaginations and know how to weave a story.

We ate whatever cookies broke (only a few did, really) and the rest look like my kids decorated them. But we had so much fun! It really was the first time I can remember that we completed a project together from start to finish. I felt reassured that I am able to care for other, smaller human beings. I felt like there is hope for us, going forward, that we can do something together as a family.

The kitchen, by the way? Completely trashed. I had to run to the store because I forgot an ingredient. When I got back, the sprinkles had exploded out of their packaging, no doubt casualties of a car-related tragedy. I spent the better part of ten minutes vaccumming up the kitchen. Even that couldn't dampen my good mood. Maybe I'm getting into the Christmas spirit after all.

Friendly Fire

I'm lovely. Really, a lot of people think so. I have a good sense of humor, I'm kind, compassionate, kind of cute, empathetic and a good listener. I have my bad points but they are far outweighed by my assets. Just saying.

Why, then, am I thrown into a tailspin every time I meet someone new? I forget form normal sentences, second-guess everything that comes out of my mouth and otherwise becoming a floundering nincompoop.

This school year has been tougher than last because either Bekah or Jeremy are in school every morning. In addition, Doug is still napping in the afternoon. That means that the possibility of play dates is slim. I see some of the same moms from last year but have limited opportunities to hang out with them.

The girls from my small group have been great company, but we have also fallen out of the habit of getting together in the evenings. I do what I can to get together with other moms from Mothers & More, but those gatherings are also in the evening.

Daytime has become lonely and it's a little frustrating. I try not to internalize my current scheduling difficulties, but it's an uphill battle during a time of year when darkness falls at 5 PM. It's tough, with these issues, to not start to doubt my awesomeness. I don't mean that in a braggadocious way; I mean, I know I'm good at making friends and maintaining friendships but the lack of access is discouraging.

I have started to research some other options for making connections. I do attend BSF (Bible Study Fellowship), but I can't attend fellowship with the ladies because of the kids. Ultimately, I know this time will pass. Before too long, all the kids will all be in school full-time and I will be able to participate in more things. I will be able to meet up with other moms during the school day and talk and listen to my heart's content.

Hopefully, my awesomeness will not have worn off by then. What am I saying? Like that could ever happen.

Empty Head

It's funny. I am sitting in front of a computer screen and my head is empty. It's the craziest thing. I can lie in bed for hours, after midnight, and have thoughts pouring through my mind. I'm not even sure I always understand it. Sometimes, I lie awake worried about how something will turn out. Sometimes, I turn a particular problem over in my head ad nauseum.

More often than not, I'm just not sleepy. I have taken a nap that was too late or too long. I didn't get enough to eat or I worked out too close to bedtime. I'm enjoying the quiet, I'm staring at the Scrabble board, I'm watching the minutes ebb away at my available sleep.

Now, though, when I want to be writing, I have no thoughts. I wrote part of an entry and scrapped it because it sounded like a commercial. I was going to write about Jeremy and I decided I didn't have enough to say.

It's tough, as a mom, to try and tap into a creative vein at will. There is certainly enough in my day that tickles my creativity. I have to solve my son's toilet paper problem, for example. I don't know why, but he insists on using almost an entire roll of toilet paper every time he uses the bathroom.

It would seem like the easy thing to do would be to put the toilet paper out of his reach. Unfortunately, there's no place that's out of his reach. I have tried to force him to go to the bathroom nearby, so that I don't have to run up (or down) to a flooding toilet.

Earlier today, he entered our 4th bedroom (which we use as an office) and unceremoniously plopped the plunger onto the carpet runner. "Mommy, can you please come downstairs and unplug the toilet?" He was at it again.

So there's a lot of opportunity to think creatively, but inspiration doesn't always strike when I want it to. Now, if you'll excuse me....my empty head needs to lie down on the pillow. I'm assuming an idea will strike in the next half hour.

Try, Try Again...

I have made no secret of the fact that I have struggled (and continue to struggle) with body image issues and weight issues. Really, at the bottom of it, I am not trusting that God will fill the God-shaped hole in my heart. It's been something with which I have struggled a long time.

I started this blog talking about my journey to gastric bypass surgery. I was hopeful, back in July of this year, that I would be able to use that surgery as a stepping stool toward a healthier lifestyle. I spoke with a surgeon and had the full support of Brian and my friends.

In the months since that point, I found out that I have a rare insurance plan that doesn't cover this type of surgery. I will note that the plan is geared toward middle-aged white men (that's the main demographic of my husband's company's board of directors). If he worked for a bigger company with a more diverse demographic, I have a feeling it would be included in the plan.

That's neither here nor there, though. I have to believe that God has a plan for me. I am not sure why, but it doesn't include gastric bypass. To be sure, there were people who were skeptical of the surgery, who warned me of potential complications. I know someone who had some devestating physical affects stemming from a gastric bypass surgery.

Since finding out I'm not able to have the surgery, I have floundered. It has become nearly impossible to conduct consistent workouts at my house. I have had a lot of success using Leslie Sansone's Walk at Home DVDs. They're great because it's a true aerobic workout and it incorporates strength training. I managed to lose 50 pounds from the time I delivered Bekah to the time I got pregnant with Doug.

The problem has been trying to find the time to work out. Having three small children isn't conducive to being able to complete these routines consistently. I have tried a bunch of different things to keep them occupied while I work out, but none have been successful.

I also have not been consistently keeping track of my food intake. I have ebbed and flowed with my Diet Coke intake. For me, I need to be accountable to someone or something (an app, a person, an online community) about my food choices. If I know I'm being accountable, I'm less likely to make a poor food choice.

For example, if I'm not tracking what I'm eating (either calories or points or just making a list of foods), then if the idea strikes me to eat a donut, I eat a donut. If I'm craving something sweet, I give in to it. Yes, I remember that I had two donuts for breakfast and Reese's peanut butter cups for lunch, but I want sugar and I'm going to eat it.

There is a component of willpower, to be sure. When I am eating clean--meaning, when I have cut out most white flour, white sugar and Diet Coke, I find that I crave sugar less. If I am well-rested, have eaten enough protein and veggies, have had enough water, I don't find myself fantasizing about sugar as much. I am able to say "no" if offered something sweet and am not consumed with it.

There is also, for me at least, a component of addiction. Once I have had a sugary snack--donut, candy, cake, cookie--the phenomena of craving kicks in. All of a sudden, I want more. I am not really good at having one cookie or donut or whatever it is. I am more likely to have 4 or 5 donuts, or cookies, or candy. I can try different strategies--eating with a fork, drinking water in between bites, cutting it in half, etc., but as soon as I walk away from my first serving, I start to obsess about when I can have more.

I did, for a while, stop eating white sugar all together. I lost some weight but I was emotionally a mess. I started eating it again and gained all the weight back plus some extra. I know that it can be said I just had a baby, but that's been 16 months ago (almost 17). Yes, I know it takes a while for the weight to come off but I have to take responsibility for my part in my predicament.

All this being said, I've started participating in Weight Watchers again. I had some success with WW back in the early to mid 2000s. Since then, I've been participating in fits and starts. I was paying for the online program earlier in the year but not adhering strictly to it. I have been losing a bit of weight here and there, but it's been inconsistent and patchy at best.

For me, losing the weight is not about looking a certain way or being able to fit into my skinny jeans. It's about my kids, my health and my future. I am currently battling high blood pressure and high cholesterol. Heart disease and diabetes run rampant through my family. This has to be about getting healthier. This has to be about showing my kids the importance of making healthy choices. Bekah especially watches me like a hawk. If I'm having junk food, she wants junk food. (I'm hoping that the reverse is true as well.)

I am ashamed that I keep having to return to WW. I know it's about continuing to try; I know when I stop making an effort that I will have failed. There is a bit of bruised ego in admitting that although I've been able to accomplish mighty things physically, I am still broken when it comes to overcoming my food issues.

As I said at the beginning of this post, this all comes down to trusting God. I have to trust that He is going to fill me up. Food is important to sustain my life and help me get from point A to point B; God helps sustain my spirit. I will say that I started blogging tonight specifically because I am craving something sweet. I no longer have that craving. It seems like when I shine the light of truth on my cravings for unhealthy things, they are dispelled. Now let's hope I can continue to let His light shine into those crevices where the cravings hide.

Christmas Blah

It's December 2nd and I can't quite figure it out, but I'm not feeling full of Christmas cheer. It might have to do with the unseasonably warm weather.

Growing up, there were a few times when I could go without a jacket at the beginning of December. Now it seems to be a regular occurrence. It's bizarre to live in the Midwest and not have cold weather in December.

It seems to be tricking my brain. Cognitively, I know that I'm supposed to be prepping for Christmas. The calendar says December, the ads on TV are holiday-themed, my kids are excited, etc.

The reality is that I have no compunction to make Christmas cookies. Part of that is I'm trying to lose weight. I am like a cornfield in Iowa when it comes to cookies; if I bake them, I will come...and eat them all.

So I have no strong desire to make my usual legions of delicious baked goods.

Shopping? I never like shopping, even under normal circumstances. My strategy is to make a list, grab the things in the store that correspond to that list and leave.

My kids are at an awkward age when it comes to gifts. Jeremy and Bekah want a merry-go-round for Christmas. I have asked for clarification on this gift many times. I tried to explain that our yard isn't big enough for a merry-go-round (or a tree house, the other request they've had).

They have a nascent belief in Santa. They don't quite understand how the whole thing works. As soon as the tree went up, they started checking on a daily basis to see if Santa had brought gifts.

I've tried, futilely, to explain that Santa only comes on Christmas Eve. They don't really understand the calendar, either, so it's all kind of tricky. Cute, but tricky.

I want to keep the present count to 3 per child. This makes things even trickier. It's my strong desire that my kids not be overcome with consumerism.

The purchases, then, have to be strategic. An anonymous donor left two bags worth of toys on our front stoop last year. I still have some of those toys left and have handed them out judiciously at friends' birthday parties.

I have a 2 gifts for Doug, one for Jeremy and none for Bekah. I have some ideas but am unsure about how I'm going to pull it all off.

This makes Christmas stressful, not joyful. The saving grace is that Brian and I have not exchanges gifts for several years. Grandparents gifts are done and my brother isn't really expecting anything.

I am hopeful that, as the month wears on, my spirit-o-meter fills up. Cause I gotta say, I've never been one for "Blah Humbug"; let's hope this year isn't the first.

Mommy's Little Dividend

Ugh. As I'm writing this, I'm feeling physically ill. Up to today, I had side-stepped the overeating. I had light fare Thursday, was full last night, but today...just way overdid it.

We put up our Christmas tree today. This is the first year the kids (Bekah and Jeremy) were able to help. It was a lot of fun to see them get so excited.

I haven't been feeling the seasonal jolliness, what with our housing situation being in flux. I cried myself to sleep last night, frustrated about looking at recently-painted walls that I may not enjoy long-term.

I knew that I needed to pull myself together for the kids. They needed me to be present for them. I am normally pretty gung-ho for Christmas; this depression is striking at an odd time.

So we decorated the tree. It is beautiful, really, and I know the kids were proud to be able to help.

I have been trying not to cry in front of the kids because I know it upsets them. It's been tough, though, and every once in a while I find my throat catching.

It happened today, while Bekah and I were alone together. I felt the tears coming and I asked her if she had fun decorating the tree. She nodded yes (fingers in mouth), her lips curling into a huge smile.

The tears came quietly and I told her how much I loved her. I gave her a big hug. When she saw that I was crying, she held out her hands to me and asked "Pray?"

She's seen Brian and I do this numerous times lately. I didn't think she was paying much attention; I should know the girl nicknamed "momma" would be taking it all in. That she knew praying would comfort me stretched my heart.

It's easy to go through trials and become hard-hearted toward God. It seems at times that our prayers are not matching up with what we perceived are God's answers. We pray for our children and find that one of them is terminally ill. We pray for provision and find ourselves struggling financially.

It's easy, then, to think that God has gotten so busy He's not so concerned with our well-being. It's easy to believe that God has abandoned us in the trenches.

Today, have my 3-year-old ask "Pray?," I felt like God was re-focusing me. I felt like he was showing me that he can present Himself in any situation, anywhere, to anyone. It was wonderful to join hands with Bekah and pray.

I watched the last half of 'It's a Wonderful Life' today and I was reminded that no man is poor who has friends. I could add to that, "....who has children who know the power of prayer."

We may continue to struggle for many years to come. I may have no financial inheritance to give to my children. My hope is that they can be richly blessed by a spiritual inheritance. I saw dividends paid on that today and though I am still in a funk, I know that God is listening.

Election Recovery

I am a freak of nature, by some counts. I am a Bible-believing Christian. I believe that Jesus Christ came to this Earth, walked as a human, died on the cross, rose again and is now sitting by God's side. I attend church regularly, serve in my congregation, pray almost every day and am imparting my religion to my kids.

I am also a Democrat. I believe in big government, I am pro-choice, I am for welfare, food stamps, Social Security and Medicare. I think that the problems our country is facing cannot be solved by charities or churches. I believe the only thing big enough for solving these problems is the government. I do not, however, see the government as infallible. I think wasteful spending happens everywhere, I think big government can be ponderous and seem to move too slow.

I also believe that unbridled greed is ruining our country. I am all for companies making profits, making goods, offering services, etc. I believe in a free market but I also believe that the meltdown in 2008-2009 happened because those at the top got ridiculously greedy. I think trickle-down economics doesn't work and I believe that until everyone is given access to a job where they can provide for their family, we are not going to succeed as a country.

I believe, firmly and without yielding, in separation of Church and State. I don't think the Church should dictate how it's citizens live; that is up to individual citizens. Everyone in this country is free to choose the religion of their choice or to not choose a religion at all. All are perfectly acceptable, all are welcome. The Pilgrims travelled to this country because they wanted to practice their faith without restriction.

My faith also dictates free will. I am allowed to believe or not believe in Jesus. I am allowed to follow or not follow God's commandments. I am allowed to practice my faith (within the constructs of my faith) however I see fit. There is nothing in the Bible about one denomination being better than the other. There is nothing about one church having better ideas than another. I believe that as long as a church's doctrine is based on the Bible, there is room for all churches.

You might understand, then, why this election cycle was tricky for me. The Republican friends I had used two wedge issues (abortion and gay marriage) to shame me. I had a random fellow church member leave a note on my van telling me that I should change my political views. (This is even more hurtful when you consider the possibility that I could have been a first-time visitor.) They tried every trick in the book to try to guilt me into voting Republican.

I tried to engage in discussions on Facebook about my views. There always was an impasse; my conservative, Republican, Christian friends couldn't believe I was voting for Obama. They couldn't believe I was pro-choice. They couldn't believe it.

I will say that I am a firm believer in the sanctity of life. I believe all life starts at conception. I also believe in a God that is sovereign. He has a plan for everyone; I don't know what it is. I am deeply saddened when someone chooses to end their babies life. I would never consider that choice for myself. BUT!!! I do not believe it should be churches, legislators, employers, etc., making the decision about a woman's body. I believe all women should have autonomy in making healthcare decisions.

I believe that God forgives those who seek forgiveness from him and redeems all things. I have seen his forgiveness in person and it's huge and all-encompassing.

I finally gave up; I stopped having political discussions on Facebook. I realized it was futile because everyone is on one side or the other. Discussions on Facebook are not prone to getting people to change their minds.

After the election, I kept my postings peaceful. I didn't gloat, I didn't brag, I wasn't hurtful to any of my Republican friends. Really. I may have re-posted a joke or two that I thought was funny, but other than that I stayed out of it. More than that, if I saw something posted by a Republican friend that called Obama supporters "entitled brats" (to paraphrase), I rolled my eyes and scrolled past. I came to the realization that it's not worth my time.

The problem is, I continue to be lambasted by my Republican friends. Not all of them, to be sure, but I wish that they would understand--every time they talk negatively about Obama's supporters, they are talking negatively about me, my family and my beliefs. I am not making blanket statements about Republicans, I am not challenging the voracity of their faith, I am not trying to change their minds. The election is over, the people (however dumb and empty-headed we may seem to be) have spoken.

Look, it's frustrating to feel like I'm being judged by the same people who share my savior. We speak about praying for our enemies, for being kind to those who hurt us and yet, when the rubber meets the road, that's just lip service.

I am who I am, to quote Popeye. God knows this. He didn't magically change my political beliefs when I became a Christian (actually, that happened before the 2008 election--I became a Christian in kindergarten). He doesn't expect me to feel, think, believe, act and write the same way as all other Christians. We are not a homogenized group! God created us all uniquely. He reveals himself to us uniquely.

I was convicted during this election cycle that my negative words, the mudslinging, the awful comments, would hurt my credibility with my non-Christian friends. I don't want people to see me acting like a bitch and then see me turn around and act pious. It's shallow, superficial and hurtful (to me and to them). This, I think, hurts God and his cause most of all. I have sidestepped engaging in any and all discussions pertaining to politics, especially on Facebook. I just have kept my mouth shut.

I am reminded that I have to love everyone but I only have to like a few. That's never been more true than in the past month.

Avalanche

I have been very honest and open about my family's struggle to stay in our home. It has been a hard-fought battle.

About a month and a half ago, we got word that we were approved for a program called Illinois Hardest Hit. It would bring us current on our mortgage. It wouldn't solve all of our problems, but it made us a little secure.

We were told it would take a while to get everything resolved. We were peaceful because we took our acceptance into the program as a sign from God that we were supposed to stay here.

As I said, it wouldn't solve the ongoing issue of making monthly mortgage payments. That has been a concern, but we took solace in the victory.

Today, I was ecstatic to spend time with my dad. We are preparing for Thanksgiving tomorrow and are excited to spend time together.

When I got home, Brian was on the phone. Unfortunately, we hit a snag. There is a shortage between the max of what Illinois Hardest Hit can pay and what we have in escrow.

I am not sure what that amount is. I am not sure if Wells Fargo is going to work with us to resolve it. And now, instead of feeling peaceful going into tomorrow, my heart is unsettled.

I feel foolish, to an extent. I have she'd a lot of tears about a house. I have she'd a lot of tears for what is, in essence, a collection of lumber and fixtures and fairly worn-out furniture. I know I shouldn't shed these tears. It is just a thing. It is not where my treasure lies.

But I brought my kids home from the hospital here. I have made memories here. I have cried, rejoiced, mourned, created here.

I hate to ask anything of my readers. I want all of you to enjoy your Thanksgiving. If its not too much trouble, though, can you pray for my family's future? Can you pray peace for our hearts? Can you ask our sovereign God to work out this situation for His glory?

It is just a house, it's not a home. Maybe God wants us to live somewhere else. Maybe God wants us to make memories in another collection of lumber, fixtures and worn-out furniture. Please pray that God would give us peace and guidance. I would rather live in peace where he wants us to be than in conflict where we shouldn't be.

Please take a minute to pray for us. Thanks for indulging my request. I hope you are all able to enjoy your Thanksgiving as you see fit.

Rough Day

I don't like not feeling well. I especially don't like it when there are periods of illness that are close together. I just got over an ear infection and started yesterday with a sore throat, runny nose and achiness. I am feeling a bit better as I sit here writing this, but it was certainly a rough start to the day.

The kids' preschool had a Thanksgiving feast this morning. It was supposed to start at 9:30, but between me not feeling well and Doug not feeling well, I figured we would stay home and keep our germs to ourselves. I busied myself updating the garland I strung up on my staircase last year. Bekah pointed out a few months ago that I should take it down, but I figured, "eh, it's almost time for Christmas again."

Meanwhile, the kids (Jeremy and Bekah) felt like they needed to fight over every possession on which they laid hands. It can be par for the course, but a migraine set in and so every tantrum, every yell, every battlecry was like nails on a chalkboard. It was almost too much to bear.

Luckily, my brother (and current hero) was able to take Bekah to dance class. I was glad that I didn't have to miss it and that I didn't have to take her. I was also glad to be down one child. The climax of the morning came just before Matt arrived to pick up Bekah. The kids were becoming increasingly shrill, the ibuprofen I had taken was not kicking in and I was in tears.

Brian is off tomorrow for a week. He was going to originally take today off so that he could go to the feast, but he had a mandatory insurance meeting instead. I called him on my cell phone and cried to him for a solid 10 minutes. I had to fight Doug off (he's obssessed with my phone) and try to talk over the continued shrieking and fighting of the two older ones.

I know it is hard for him to field those kind of calls. He doesn't have a job where he can pick up, come home and work from home for part of the day. They are strangely inflexible about him working from home, even though he did it successfully for a couple of years. He still has all the computer equipment, fax machine, copier, router, etc. They just refuse to let him work from home. Stupidest thing, in my mind, but what do I know?

So I know it was tough to hear his not-well wife crying on the phone with him. He handled it like a champ; he let me cry (while commenting on the sounds of battle being fought) and told me it was going to be okay. Once Bekah left, Doug was ready for a nap. I was down to 1 child. After a crazy morning, it almost seems like I'm cheating it's so easy.

My reward? Chinese food. Really, though, surviving a hoarde of shrieking, shrill, banshee-like children for a day deserves nothing less.

Compassion

I consider myself a good mom, even a momma bear. I am grateful for all of my kids. I do everything I can to provide for their basic needs.

I am not, however, a patient person. It's my biggest character defect. Once I get an in my head, I am unable to let it go. I hate to wait on things or people.

This defect, more than any other, has the biggest negative impact on my relationship with Christ, my family and my friends. I tend to have my own timeline for when things should happen. If that timeline isn't met, I become a foot-stomping, tantrum-throwing, petulant 3-year-old.

The word I hate to hear is "wait." I hate to hear it from other humans and I hate to wait on God. I have been like this my whole life. It is a contributing factor in my obesity. It's something that is slowly killing me.

It also means I'm slow to have compassion, especially for those to whom I'm closest. I spend the most chronological time with my kids and even though they're the youngest people in my life, they are the ones for whom I have the least compassion.

Today was an example of me lacking compassion. My older two don't nap everyday. When Jeremy was Bekah's age, he still napped everyday. The fact that they share a room makes it tricky to get them to take consistent naps.

Bekah could use a nap about three times a week. I am lucky to get her down for one. Jeremy does well with one nap a week. If I want them to nap, I have to separate them. That means I don't get a break myself.

I usually aim for "quiet time" 2-3 times a week. I put both the kids in their room and make them stay there while I do administrative work, catch up on my DVRed shows, whatever. It allows me to catch my breath and recharge my "patience" batteries.

You see, those batteries don't get completely charged everyday. It becomes like a cell phone battery; after a while, the battery doesn't hold as much of a charge.

That battery is used as much as the battery for my iPhone. I start off the day with it being used by the kids and it never lets up. So when it turns to lunchtime and behavior goes sour, I'm not working with much in reserve.

Today, we had physical therapy for Doug. This has become a difficult activity. It conflicts with Doug's nap time, causes Bekah's "mommy" gene to flare-up and generally causes the green-eyed monster to arrive in a cloud of smoke.

Jeremy, who's been obsessed with his trains, refused to share one of his freight cars with Laura (the therapist) to use with Doug. Mind you, he's got about 20 that he uses.

Today, I didn't have patience for it. I sent him to his room for the remainder of the session. After Laura left, though, it got ugly.

He wouldn't go to his room on his own. In the back of my mind, I knew that today had to be a nap day for one or the other. Bekah was the heavy favorite, but when things went south with Jeremy, he moved to the top of the list.

I was not the mom I wanted to be in that moment with Jeremy. I didn't have compassion for my 5-year-old. I knew he probably needed a nap. He struggles with talking about his feelings. I think it's tough thing to want more attention from mom and not always know how to ask for it.

I expect him, at 5, to be great at sharing. I expect him to be able to articulate his feelings. I expect that he can amuse himself for an hour without bugging me.

This is a boy who still needs me to button his pants after he goes to the bathroom. He is awful at drinking out of a non-sippy cup. He still can't dress himself on his own.

What about all of that would mean my son is emotionally independent? Why would I expect him to come to me, reticent, saying "Mom, it's tough for me to share your attention with my younger siblings. I want to have an opportunity to be with you on my own. When I can't, I get really upset and act out inappropriately. I apologize and will now go for a nap on my own."

No, he's 5. His reaction is to treat his brother's therapist poorly, throw a tantrum, refuse to nap, kick the closed door of his bedroom and generally be 5.

The problem with being impatient is that the anger is more pronounced. I know there's a theory about taking 5 minutes to calm down but when I can't even put the laundry away by myself, it's a tough thing to practice. The solution is patience--it tends to breed compassion.

I am sure today was not the last day I'll lose it with my kids. I am hopeful that, if I start to get more sleep, pray more and shout less, I can try to show my babies more compassion. They really do deserve it; really, I do too.

Ah, Friday

Every week seems to build toward a crescendo on Thursdays. Brian works late on Thursday. He doesn't get home until 7. It's only an extra hour, but because the hour is after naps it feels longer.

It can be a great day with the kids, but because I know he's gonna be late, I postpone naps as late as I can. I draw out lunch, let the kids play a bit, try to take care of laundry.

My strategy is simple; the later naps are, the less time between post-nap and Brian's arrival. Post-nap behavior is typically not good. It would help if my older two napped regularly; they don't.

The attitudes are poor and they quickly decompensate. The kids like to make demands--can we go to d'da and bubba's house, can we eat candy, can we take every toy we own out and not play with it? (That last one was made up, but I'm looking at a pile of trains and trucks on the ground in the kitchen. They didn't ask but it happened anyway.)

My behavior also decompensate after naps. On a good day, when I get to nap by myself (it's very rare), I am able to replenish my patience. It's never back to morning levels but it means my head won't spin around if someone accidentally spills a cup of milk.

Most Thursdays, my head spins at least once. It's such a marathon of a day and the kids don't appreciate that. Unable to tell time, an extra hour means very little to them. They don't purposefully try my patience more; the weight of those extra sixty minutes empties my reserves quicker.

I have grown to dread Thursdays. In a perfect world, I would spend time with another family. That doesn't happen because it's the witching hour for everyone. Extra faces around someone else's table puts extra weight on their reserves.

The sigh of relief that accompanies Brian's first step into the house is heavenly. It's wonderful to exhale into Friday.

The President Stays the Same

I am a racist. Yep, that's right. I am guilty of having an adverse judgement or opinion of people formed without facts. (Thanks, dictionary.com, for your help with that.)

The other night, I was driving on a segment of road near my house. This piece of road has been under construction for some time and is now being finished, but the lanes are a bit confusing.

I was driving behind someone in a Honda who ended up in the right turn lane. He didn't have his turn signal on and didn't end up turning right. In fact, he almost ran me off the road trying to merge into my lane.

I honked at him, then changed lanes. As I was driving by, I caught a glimpse of the driver. My immediate response was "Oh, DWA." (Driving while Asian) It's Brian and my designation for Asian-American people with lackluster driving skills.

It seems funny as I'm writing it, but I am mindful of the impact my negative ideas have. I studied for two years at a university whose student body predominantly African-American. I was the minority. It was an interesting experience.

I will say, the professors and curriculum at the school was fantastic. I learned more about politics there than anywhere else. I saw a glimpse into the psyche of minorities. I learned that they are inherently suspicious of the government.

I didn't, as a Caucasian-looking Mexican-American, understand why they would feel that way. I mean, the government, as I understood it (from my 19-year-old, middle-class perspective) wasn't out to get anyone. They have everyone's best interest at heart.

Unfortunately, as I've gotten older, I have come to understand that that's not true.

Last week, I was impressed to see President Obama re-elected. Even though I have been lambasted by my fellow Christians for voting for him, I hold my head high. I am ecstatic.

Even more, I can understand why Fox news and others of their ilk (read rich, white men) are so upset. See, for them, racism and prejudice are alive and well. For them, the scapegoat is the brown and black-skinned person.

It's easy to see this on social media. I've seen (more than once) the posting about waiting in line behind someone talking on their iPhone and paying for their purchase with food stamps. The implication is that there is someone receiving government assistance who really doesn't need it.

Let me tell you something. In my two years at Chicago State (and my years since), I've shopped many thousands of times. The few times I've been in line behind someone using food stamps, I've seen the demeanor of someone who is not altogether proud of using food stamps. They do not wave their Link card in the air saying, "woohoo, I'm gaming Uncle Sam."

In fact, I have a girlfriend who used food stamps while she was in school. She was trying to obtain her graduate degree in counseling. As a single mother, she couldn't find part-time work that would fit into her schedule. She and her two blonde-haired blue-eyed children were living hand to mouth.

She was only able to receive a pittance of food stamps. It, along with regular visits to a local food pantry, allowed her to put herself in a position to become fully employed and able to provide for her family. This was not a point of pride, she talked openly about how frustrating the process was and it was something she used as a stop-gap. Would it have been easier for her and her children to go hungry? I personally don't think so.

It's easier, though, if you are rich and white, to think that all recipients of government assistance are "gaming the system." It's easier to convince people to do away with what seems like a spendy, rambling government program if the perception is that all people are taking advantage.

It's easy to lambaste the Affordable Health Care Act (aka Obamacare) as another way to ruin America. Rich, white men have no problems with access to healthcare. In fact, they have primo access to healthcare.

My same friend, who was putting herself through school, had no healthcare. If she got sick, it was tough to get in to see the doctor-they won't see you if you don't have insurance. So, the rich white men say, go to the ER. Sure, that seems feasible. Unless that visit results in a diagnosis of a serious health condition.

Let's say, for example, that pesky rasp in your chest ends up being lung cancer. You came to the ER because you have no insurance. What will happen to you? I assure you, the hospital will not offer to treat your cancer for free. You may have some chance at having your church help you; the problem is, churches are feeling the strain of more people needing help and less people being able to help.

So what happens? Really, nothing. You have a chronic health condition? Need maintenance medications? Good luck. Let's stop and remember, for a minute, that the largest number of people receiving Medicaid are the elderly and the disabled. Rich white men would rather you not realize that, but it's the truth.

So now, many years removed, I understand why minorities are inherently suspicious of the government. It is run by a group of people who see them as a threat. It's descendants of people who used their descendants to build their wealth. Of course that's a threat.

In my mind, rich white men are like my toddlers. In their mind, everything is about them. Taxes are great but not for them. Benefits for the underprivileged? Why? No one gave them any help (except for the fact that they had steady access to education, healthcare, food, shelter and other amenities-there are millions of American kids who don't have all of those basic necessities).

In their minds, America would be so much better if it weren't for the pesky poor people. It would be easier if everyone just took care of themselves. The problem is that, like toddlers, their favorite word is "mine."

They don't want to pay people a living wage (or make healthcare accessible) because it eats into their profits. They would rather be wealthy in a country of poor people than be less wealthy in a country of people who can take care of themselves.

I see these rich white men for who they are. Scared. They hide behind their faith. They claim that liberals are eating away at the moral fiber of our country. At the same time, they dictate their number one goal as making sure that Obama be a one-term president.

They didn't work on that goal while simultaneously trying to get people back to work. They didn't work on this goal while still trying to fix the problems this country was facing. They simply sat down, crossed their arms and said they didn't want to.

I have to tell you, the best way to deal with a toddler is to take away something they love. In this case, it meant taking away their chance at the White House. Hopefully, the time-out will do them some good.

Crazy Week

I will write more tomorrow, I promise. Between having Halloween in the middle of the week and painting the master bedroom, I haven't had an extra ounce of energy. Thanks for being patient.

Art in Communicating

I have always been able to talk. I mean, not always, obviously, but since a very young age. I've never stopped talking, really. Even when I say I'm speechless, I'm not. I love my ability to weave words into sentences, phrases, stories, poems. It's not something to which I give much thought.

If I'm in a good rhythm of reading poetry, I think in poems. Mystery novels? I narrate my life as if I'm a detective. Right now, I'm reading articles and watching documentaries. There is a lot of quirky music playing in my head and an NPR-type narrator going at all times.

It's tough for me to imagine a life without language. I love hearing people speak in foreign languages because it's like music to me. I have always loved the Romance languages. Even when you're angry, it sounds like an opera. I enjoy the way the words string together.

German and the Slavic languages remind me of staccato gunfighting. Even when you are showing love, it sounds like you are damning someone. I have the ability to understand a smattering of words in a variety of languages.

It's interesting when people speak Spanish around me. I used to be fluent; a lot of vocab se me perdio (lost itself to me-literal translation) because I didn't practice it. In general, I don't eavesdrop when people are speaking Spanish. I respect their desire to conduct a conversation in their native tongue, whatever their motivation or reason.

If someone speaks Spanish to me, it's a process. I stumble to translate it into English, then contemplate the response, then stumble to translate it to Spanish. When I spend a long time in Mexico, I start dreaming in Spanish. It internalizes. I am grateful to have family that accepts my Spanglish with grace.

I don't believe English should be our national language. I think that's a backward and old-fashioned idea. I believe language is an art and we all appreciate art in different ways. We all express art in different ways. I just watched a documentary, Herb & Dorothy, about two New Yorkers who have spent their lifetime appreciating, collecting and promoting minimalist art.

It's not my aestethic. I love Impressionistic art and sculpture. I love black and white photography, especially of the journalistic variety. I enjoy that pictures tell a story. It seems simplistic, but what if I were to outlaw minimalist art? Wouldn't that cause an outcry from minimalist artists? Of course it would.

Saying that people shouldn't be able to speak their native language is the same thing. It seems to offend people that immigrants don't want to lose the tradition of their native language. It seems to offend people that they have to press "1" for Spanish. I really have never understood why.

Part of is that I've always heard another language. I have always heard Spanish at family gatherings. It's not offensive to me. It's beautiful. It's like walking into a different wing of a gallery. It's like realizing there was a beautiful artist who's been producing work for years and I'm just now seeing her work.

Yesterday, I went to get my oil changed. The kids and I went into the kids lounge and were by ourselves for a bit. After a while, two women and two kids came in. They were conversing part in English and part in another language. I was racist and judged them to be Hispanic because of their brown skin. However, the language they were speaking was not Spanish. There were elements that seemed to fit, but then they used words that were discordant to the melody I was expecting.

I wanted to ask them what language they were speaking, but didn't want to be intrusive. Whatever language it was, I wanted to walk in the gallery for a bit. I was intrigued. I was not terrified that they were plotting something; I didn't think they were gossiping about me.

The documentary I'm watching right now is amplifying this idea. It's called Retches and Jabberers and it's about two men with autism. They discovered that they could communicate with one another and other people through typing on the computer. They are beautiful people who feel they have been struck with an awful disease. But to watch them communicate, it makes me cry.

They express themselves in a way that is more beautiful than any language I've ever heard. They are giving a voice to thoughts and feelings that were trapped inside themselves for decades. If people cannot speak it doesn't mean they cannot feel. It doesn't meant they aren't in anguish about their lives or situation or feelings. Not speaking in English doesn't mean someone is dumb or deaf. It means they process information differently. It means they express information differently.

I think it's time we keep expanding, not restricting, the gallery. We all can benefit from more art in our lives.

Ah, Friday

Every week seems to build toward a crescendo on Thursdays. Brian works late on Thursday. He doesn't get home until 7. It's only an extra hour, but because the hour is after naps it feels longer.

It can be a great day with the kids, but because I know he's gonna be late, I postpone naps as late as I can. I draw out lunch, let the kids play a bit, try to take care of laundry.

My strategy is simple; the later naps are, the less time between post-nap and Brian's arrival. Post-nap behavior is typically not good. It would help if my older two napped regularly; they don't.

The attitudes are poor and they quickly decompensate. The kids like to make demands--can we go to d'da and bubba's house, can we eat candy, can we take every toy we own out and not play with it? (That last one was made up, but I'm looking at a pile of trains and trucks on the ground in the kitchen. They didn't ask but it happened anyway.)

My behavior also decompensate after naps. On a good day, when I get to nap by myself (it's very rare), I am able to replenish my patience. It's never back to morning levels but it means my head won't spin around if someone accidentally spills a cup of milk.

Most Thursdays, my head spins at least once. It's such a marathon of a day and the kids don't appreciate that. Unable to tell time, an extra hour means very little to them. They don't purposefully try my patience more; the weight of those extra sixty minutes empties my reserves quicker.

I have grown to dread Thursdays. In a perfect world, I would spend time with another family. That doesn't happen because it's the witching hour for everyone. Extra faces around someone else's table puts extra weight on their reserves.

The sigh of relief that accompanies Brian's first step into the house is heavenly. It's wonderful to exhale into Friday.

Crying Shame

I cry all the time, or I used to, anyway. I would cry when I was angry, sad, happy, upset, frustrated...you name it, I cried. I took the Series 7 test several years ago. Before I could sit for it, I had to take a class. It was excruciating. I was 31 years old and I cried...during class...because I was so frustrated.

When I am on my anti-depressants and taking them as prescribed, I am less likely to dissolve into tears. I much prefer that state of being. My teachers were the first people to realize my tears were out of the ordinary. I have talked before about being pulled out of third grade to speak with the social worker. My teachers called me "sensitive."

I didn't intend, in the beginning, to use my tears as a weapon. I was genuinely upset about things. I couldn't manage my responses to stimuli. I would try to verbally spar with the bullies; they outclassed me every time. I would try to navigate female friendships in school; I was always left crying and puzzled. I simply was unable to keep the tears back.

There were times my tears were endearing. One of the first dates Brian and I had was to downtown Chicago. I love Christmas (this is no mystery) and he wanted to show me the lights on Michigan Ave. We drove down to the city and as we turned onto the Magnificent Mile, I got a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. It's like it was a physicological response. Brian looked over at me and was touched by how I reacted.

I have not always used my tears for good. I learned, early on, that my dad (especially my dad) was not able to resist my tears. They were (and are) his Kryptonite. I knew that if I was in a pinch, a well-placed call to dad (with tears) would get me some money. I don't think I actually ever made myself cry; in those moments and times, the tears were real because I was feeling overwhelmed.

The one group of people who were immune were policeman. I have friends who sidestepped numerous moving violations by turning on the waterworks. To be fair, these friends are cute and the tears accentuated that. They are non-messy criers; maybe some streaming of tears down the face, but other than that, nothing. I, on the other hand, turn into a snot-faced, red-faced mess. If I'm stressed--as I normally get when stopped by our fine men in blue--the crying becomes violent, replete with shoulder shaking and shallow breathing. I am not some cute movie star, crying in a beautiful way. I am, quite frankly, disgusting. It's not pretty and it probably shouldn't be a shock that policemen seem more eager to give me a ticket and get away from me.

Today was a crying day. Nothing happened that should have elicited the tears, per se. I went to Bible study (after having crammed last night to get my homework done). My leader, Marcy, usually calls every week to check in on all of us. This week, I only got a text from her. She didn't seem to be too concerned that I had missed last week. I wasn't feeling well and I'm used to at least having one person call to check on me.

Then, to make matters worse, the homework I did was for the wrong week. The rules of this Bible study state that if you've not done the homework, you are not allowed to participate. Perfectly fine rule but I was having a day where I wanted to participate. I have attended Bible study at my own church for several years. I had gotten to know the women quite well and felt comfortable talking about my feelings. Even though I hated it, I had cried in front of them on a couple of occasions.

Today, though, the tears started coming and I had no desire for anyone to see me. I just didn't want to talk about what was upsetting me. I didn't want to be that emotionally vulnerable with people I barely know. This is a shift for me. Typically, I am pretty open and honest about my life. I tend to overshare with people I've just met. It's both endearing and off-putting. I feel like, if I'm honest about who and what I am right at the beginning, people can decide to back away or step forward with me.

So I left. I waited around until I could mostly compose myself (I didn't even want the childcare workers to see me cry), grabbed the kids and left. Bekah noticed that we left early. She kept the chatter up from the time I got her until we got out to the parking lot. Finally, she asked me, "mommy, why did we leave early?" In the interest of full disclosure, I was honest; "I don't know, honey. I don't know."

Short and Sweet

I am trying to keep the momentum going for my writing. I feel like I dropped the ball in the September. I don't have a lot to say today, just trying to keep myself honest and out there.

When I started working at Hewitt, I had a female trainer named Chrissi. She was bubbly and energetic--it's like she was born for that role. She went on leave to have gastric bypass; the next time I saw her, she was frail and in a wheelchair. She and I had little in common except our employment and faith. I had lunch with her but felt bad asking about why she was in a wheelchair.

This last week, she shared her testimony at her weekly Bible study. She videotaped it and then posted that video to Facebook. Her story is extraordinary. She had the gastric bypass surgery and then became partially paralyzed due to complications stemming from the initial surgery. She is still as radiant as ever, has two beautiful children, walks with the use of a walker, and is still married to her husband.

I saw myself in her story. There are similarities, to be sure; I am a candidate for gastric bypass (even though my insurance company won't cover it). I am a Christian, I have a wonderful husband and small children. I can also relate to her spiritually.

God has blessed her immensely even through her difficulties. She acknowledges her children as miracles; that was why she even considered the surgery in the first place. Her doctors discouraged her against getting pregnant, but God had other ideas.

The idea she had that struck me cold centered around Matthew 7:9-10: "who among you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake?" She admits that she twisted God's truth in those verses to mean that God was giving her stones and snakes. Even though she knew God's hand was on her life, she still struggled with her faith. She still felt far from God. She still felt like God wasn't listening.

It occurs to me, my life is on a similar trajectory. We have encountered innumerable obstacles, trials and suffering over the past 5 years, starting with Jeremy's health issues through our current struggle to stay in our home. God has, without a doubt, been at work in our lives. He spared Jeremy's life, spared Brian from having to undergo chemo and radiation, kept me safe in my pregnancy with Doug (just to name a few). He has provided money for us when we needed it, kept our cabinets and tummies full, and ministered to us.

But I am still struggling in my day-to-day relationship. I have two traditions that encourage me to pray in the morning and at night, but I neglect to do it every day. I have wonderful, God-fearing women and men in my life. They are invested in seeing me spiritually successful.  I have not shared with them that I don't commune with God on a daily (or even weekly) basis. I pray at small group and say grace over some meals with my kids, but otherwise, nothing.

I am not wholly convinced that God's plan will work out in the end. I am still doubtful about whether or not He has our best interest at heart. I am still sure that he is giving me stones and snakes when I'm asking for bread and fish. The reality ties into my main defect; impatience. I interpret my having to wait as God not answering.

It's tough to admit that I'm really being an agnostic lately. I want the desire to pray. I want to be filled with love for my Creator. I want to worship Him, I want to help my kids love Him. I am sick of feeling empty but not thirsty enough to drink from the right well.

Compassion

I consider myself a good mom, even a momma bear. I am grateful for all of my kids. I do everything I can to provide for their basic needs.

I am not, however, a patient person. It's my biggest character defect. Once I get an in my head, I am unable to let it go. I hate to wait on things or people.

This defect, more than any other, has the biggest negative impact on my relationship with Christ, my family and my friends. I tend to have my own timeline for when things should happen. If that timeline isn't met, I become a foot-stomping, tantrum-throwing, petulant 3-year-old.

The word I hate to hear is "wait." I hate to hear it from other humans and I hate to wait on God. I have been like this my whole life. It is a contributing factor in my obesity. It's something that is slowly killing me.

It also means I'm slow to have compassion, especially for those to whom I'm closest. I spend the most chronological time with my kids and even though they're the youngest people in my life, they are the ones for whom I have the least compassion.

Today was an example of me lacking compassion. My older two don't nap everyday. When Jeremy was Bekah's age, he still napped everyday. The fact that they share a room makes it tricky to get them to take consistent naps.

Bekah could use a nap about three times a week. I am lucky to get her down for one. Jeremy does well with one nap a week. If I want them to nap, I have to separate them. That means I don't get a break myself.

I usually aim for "quiet time" 2-3 times a week. I put both the kids in their room and make them stay there while I do administrative work, catch up on my DVRed shows, whatever. It allows me to catch my breath and recharge my "patience" batteries.

You see, those batteries don't get completely charged everyday. It becomes like a cell phone battery; after a while, the battery doesn't hold as much of a charge.

That battery is used as much as the battery for my iPhone. I start off the day with it being used by the kids and it never lets up. So when it turns to lunchtime and behavior goes sour, I'm not working with much in reserve.

Today, we had physical therapy for Doug. This has become a difficult activity. It conflicts with Doug's nap time, causes Bekah's "mommy" gene to flare-up and generally causes the green-eyed monster to arrive in a cloud of smoke.

Jeremy, who's been obsessed with his trains, refused to share one of his freight cars with Laura (the therapist) to use with Doug. Mind you, he's got about 20 that he uses.

Today, I didn't have patience for it. I sent him to his room for the remainder of the session. After Laura left, though, it got ugly.

He wouldn't go to his room on his own. In the back of my mind, I knew that today had to be a nap day for one or the other. Bekah was the heavy favorite, but when things went south with Jeremy, he moved to the top of the list.

I was not the mom I wanted to be in that moment with Jeremy. I didn't have compassion for my 5-year-old. I knew he probably needed a nap. He struggles with talking about his feelings. I think it's tough thing to want more attention from mom and not always know how to ask for it.

I expect him, at 5, to be great at sharing. I expect him to be able to articulate his feelings. I expect that he can amuse himself for an hour without bugging me.

This is a boy who still needs me to button his pants after he goes to the bathroom. He is awful at drinking out of a non-sippy cup. He still can't dress himself on his own.

What about all of that would mean my son is emotionally independent? Why would I expect him to come to me, reticent, saying "Mom, it's tough for me to share your attention with my younger siblings. I want to have an opportunity to be with you on my own. When I can't, I get really upset and act out inappropriately. I apologize and will now go for a nap on my own."

No, he's 5. His reaction is to treat his brother's therapist poorly, throw a tantrum, refuse to nap, kick the closed door of his bedroom and generally be 5.

The problem with being impatient is that the anger is more pronounced. I know there's a theory about taking 5 minutes to calm down but when I can't even put the laundry away by myself, it's a tough thing to practice. The solution is patience--it tends to breed compassion.

I am sure today was not the last day I'll lose it with my kids. I am hopeful that, if I start to get more sleep, pray more and shout less, I can try to show my babies more compassion. They really do deserve it; really, I do too.

Because He Must

There was a movie that came out in the late 90s called "Blast From the Past." It starred Brendan Fraser, Alicia Silverstone, Sissy Spacek and Christopher Walken. The movie is set in the 60s and the 90s. The premise is that Christopher Walken is an eccentric scientist who, in a panic over the Cold War, builds a bomb shelter under his house.

In a twist of fate, there is a plane crash nearby that panics Walken and he takes his wife (Spacek) and young boy (Fraser) into the bomb shelter. They spend the next couple of decades underground. The movie shows Fraser's character as he grows up. Walken does everything he can to educate Fraser on all subjects. (Spacek, who ends up feeling trapped, spends more and more time drunk.)

One subject that Walken cannot seem to educate Fraser about is baseball. He does everything he can to help Fraser understand how the game works, but he is unable to process the force-out. Walken tries everything to illuminate the subject, but ends up exasperated. He keeps saying, "because he [the player] must."

I have been considering this movie and this phrase since I had kids. I'll explain why using a recent example. A few weeks ago, Brian and I attended a wedding of a friend of ours. She gave everyone a little acorn-shaped bell to jingle when we wanted her and her husband to kiss. I left it in my clutch that I took for the evening and Bekah found it.

She has asked me, several times, what the bell was used for. You can see where this is going; how do I explain this tradition to my 3-year-old? I can't even begin to explain what a wedding is. When my husband was baptized this summer, we tried to explain to her what was happening. I explained that, in our family, we believe in getting baptized as adults after we've accepted Jesus into our hearts.

With all sincerity, she listened and then said, "mommy, when I get older, I want to get bath toys, too." I gave her a big hug and smile and sent her up for bed. How, then, must a wedding sound? A girl gets dressed up in a white dress and marries a boy. It must seem foreign. So then, how much tougher is it to explain that, after she marries the boy, everyone sits down to dinner. When the guests want to see the girl and boy kiss, they ring the little bells.

Nope, I knew there was no hope in explaining it. I am sure, when she attends her first wedding, she will (as Brendan Fraser does when he sees his first, real-life baseball game) mutter under her breath, "because they must." It makes me smile to think about it.

Traffic on My Mind

I am setting out to write the entry I didn't want to write the other day. I am tired and it's late, but I am feeling led to write about it, so here goes.

I first learned about sex trafficking probably more than a dozen years ago. I was waiting in a doctor's office and saw a Newsweek (or Time, I can't remember which) with a cover story about the subject. I was transfixed by the subject. I sat there digesting the article and it's subject and getting angrier and more disgusted by the minute.

I will say, I saw this article before the internet became what it is today. I kept an ear out during newscasts, certain this would garner some sort of attention, but alas it didn't. Mira Sorvino and Donald Sutherland starred in the 2005 TV movie "Human Trafficking," but I didn't have a chance to watch it. (This was in the days before DVR.) I felt like, with such heinous crimes being committed, there had to be more news coverage.

So when a friend mentioned a passion for ending human trafficking, my ears perked up. She is currently trying to organize an event to benefit Dress a Girl Around the World. The organization supplies pillowcase dresses (with the organization's label on the outside) to girls in Uganda and other parts of the world. The idea is that girls who wear these dresses are less likely to be preyed upon by sex traffickers. They are seen as being cared for, as being important to someone, as being someone who might be missed.

The more I talked with this friend, the more the fire in my belly got stoked. She organized a forum at a local church and invited a trafficking survivor named Brenda to share her story. Brenda is an extraordinary woman, beautiful to the core. She held everyone's attention as she shared, over the course of an hour, her story of being trafficked for over 24 years.

She was raised by an alcoholic grandmother and started suffering at the hands of an abuser at age 4. By the age of 15, she was having her second child and was walking the streets as a prostitute. She remembers sitting in her apartment, watching the prostitutes outside her window and thinking to herself, "they look shiny. I want to be shiny, too." She suffered unspeakable abuse at the hands of pimps and johns and got no sympathy at home. She was held for a month by two of her pimps. One night, she was at a truck stop and got the courage to ask a trucker to take her home. He obliged.

When she got home, her grandmother didn't ask where she had been. She lambasted Brenda for having left her alone with Brenda's children for a month. She repeatedly told Brenda that she "wasn't worth nothing." Brenda's last experience as a prostitute was profound. Her john dragged her down the street, shredding the skin on the left side of her body, and then abandoned her in the middle of the sidewalk. Brenda was taken to the hospital and the nurses started prepping her until the cops showed up. One of the cops told the nurses that they knew her; she was a prostitute they had busted before.

The nurses wheeled Brenda out into the hallway and she sat there for eight hours until the next shift change. A female doctor took one look at her at got to work. The damage to Brenda's face was extensive and she was going to need to be in the hospital for several days. Every day, the doctor would sit in her room and chart. Brenda didn't indicate everything they talked about, but she did say that the doctor never once shamed her because of who she was.

The last day Brenda was in the hospital, the doctor sat on the edge of her bed and asked if she would go and visit social services. Brenda wasn't sure about that, but she did remember a lady she describes as a hippy. She used to minister to Brenda and other prostitutes on the streets. She ran a mission called Genesis House. Brenda remembers her saying to come visit her "whenever you're tired, whenever you're hungry." The way Brenda describes it is almost comical, but it was what stuck with her.

Her injuries were going to require extensive follow-up care. She was going to have skin grafts and needed to change her bandages regularly. She decided to take the lady up on her offer and showed up on the doorstep to Genesis House. What she found there--compassion, love, warmth--was something she had never experienced before. She says that she was able to sleep peacefully for the first time in years. She would wake up and her bandages had been changed.

But what made me cry was hearing Brenda talk about the refrigerator. The staff there told her to go into the refrigerator and have whatever she wanted. Even typing this, my heart aches for people who haven't heard such a basic, kind command. Eat whatever you want in the refrigerator. It seems so simple, but it really hit Brenda hard. These people wanted to help her. They loved her.

It took her a while to heal. She attended anger management classes, 12-step meetings, therapy, anything they prescribed. She did whatever they asked her because she wanted to get better. And get better she has. She is the co-founder of The Dreamcatcher Foundation, based in Chicago. She is a tireless advocate for prostitutes and other victims of sex trafficking. She drives a 16-passenger van around the streets of Chicago, handing out food and hope to women in need.

Her phone is always on and she meets the needs of the girls she's saved with money from her own pocket. Many of them are trying to make a different life for themselves, but food stamps won't cover detergent. So Brenda has her garage and basement stocked with detergent. Diapers? She'll bring them to you. She talks to girls in group homes (where girls are easy pickings for traffickers), goes into the schools and educates young women, works with the Cook County Sheriff's Department and goes into Cook County Jail.

She brought a young woman with her who had also been the victim of trafficking. I'll call her Jane (because I can't remember her name). She comes from a home with mom and dad intact. A few days before her 16th birthday party, her dad lost her job. She wasn't going to be able to have the Sweet Sixteen party she wanted. She threw a fit and ran away to teach her parents a lesson. Within a few days, she had been picked up and spent the next 4 years being trafficked.

Brenda talks about how the internet has taken all of this activity underground. One scam that snags young girls starts out seeming harmless enough. A girl will be asked to submit pictures of herself (nothing lewd or naked--at this point, the traffickers want to see if she's attractive). They will then say, "you're a finalist in our contest. Here's $250 and a ticket to Las Vegas. Fly out to Vegas and you'll be able to participate in the bigger contest."

$250 to a teenager is a lot of money. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong; nobody's asked her to take off her clothes. Someone's sent her a plane ticket--that doesn't happen every day. She gets her friend to cover for her, flies out to Vegas and vanishes. Brenda had us ask ourselves why there are so many people handing out so many different fliers for escorts in Vegas. She works hard to teach young women that they are beautiful. If they're not hearing that at home, if they're not being well-cared for, they are easy prey for a pimp.

I left Brenda's talk with even more resolve. Then, in this month's issue of More magazine, I found an article about trafficking. It offers some scary statistics:

• The U.N. estimates that trafficking is a $32 billion industry across 161 countries.
• Official reckonings of the number of victims are widely believed to be low, but according to the U.N.'s International Labour Organization, roughly 21 million people are being held against their will worldwide.
• Of those, about 22 percent are in the sex trade; others work in restaurants, on construction sites or wherever shadowy labor forces thrive.
• Every year, according to the U.S. State department, some 17,500 modern-day slaves are brought into the United States.
• No one knows exactly how many adult sex slaves are currently in the U.S.; estimates run as high as 50,000.

The article stipulates that "trafficking occurs whenever someone is held in the service of another through force, fraud or psychological coercion." I grew up thinking that (honestly, this is what I believed) women chose to become prostitutes because they liked having sex. It is abhorrent to me that we live in a country where slavery was abolished 150 years ago and yet, people are lining their pockets with the proceeds of sex slavery.

I am angry as a mother. These are people's daughters. I am angry as a woman. These women are being victimized because they are women. I am angry as a US Citizen. I live in a country that is a democracy and yet, really, capitalism runs the show. 

I have watched Law & Order: SVU for several years. The invention of Netflix meant I could catch up on the seasons I had missed. SVU has had several storylines involving sex trafficking. They have helped me change my perception of who sex workers are, where they come from and what they look like. I admit, there are episodes where I want to turn away, but I watch because it's an education for me. I learn things about predators I wouldn't learn elsewhere. I have come to understand that there is no cure for pedophilia. I understand the signs to look for when someone is being sexually abused. 

It would be easy to turn my head and say, not my kids, but I feel like that just makes my kids easy pickings. I don't know what I hope to accomplish by writing this entry. I am one person, with one blog, with a soft heart for female victims. Females are abused all over the world and often in the name of God, a god or some other religious craziness. I have been privileged to be studying the book of Genesis. What I'm learning is that God didn't create Eve to be under Adam's thumb. He created Eve because he saw that Adam was lonely. He created Eve to be uniquely compatible with Adam. 

He didn't create Eve second because he considered her a second citizen; He walked with both of them in the Garden of Eden. He didn't ever command Adam to rule over Eve. He didn't give Adam permission to abuse or mistreat Eve. The New Testament passage about "wives, submit to your husbands" comes after a lengthy talk to men about how they are to love their wives as Christ loves the church. 

I can find no basis in reality for why men treat women the way they do. It turns my stomach to think about Brenda's 24 years as a trafficking victim. I am angry that she was abused starting at the age of 4. I can't understand why this happens. I have had enough "bad" things happen to me that I know there's not always a reason. 

But I have decided that I will no longer bury my head in the sand. I will no longer act as if this is not happening in my city (Brenda has actually rescued trafficking victims from hotels in Crystal Lake). I will no longer act as if it's okay for anyone to be treated with such malice. I don't care what anyone looks like, what color their skin is, there is no justification for anyone being treated this way. 

In the end, I hope that I've given a bit of an education. The facts and stories I have shared only scratch the top of the top of the surface of this widespread story. I encourage you to visit Brenda's foundations website, www.thedreamcatcherfoundation.org. I encourage you to visit the website about pillowcase dresses, www.dressagirlaroundtheworld.com. My friend and I are planning to host an event where we will be sewing pillowcase dresses. If you are cleaning out your closets and find errant pillowcases, consider donating them to the cause. You can contact me at cteasabttn@yahoo.com and I can arrange to come and pick them up.

Talk about this in your place of worship. Maybe you can't contribute financially, but these girls need people to intercede in prayer on their behalf. Anyone who thinks they are "just praying" is underestimating the heart God has for these women. These are His daughters, heirs to His throne. He takes this all very personally. Pray for an end to this. Pray for these women to know their worth. Pray that our own daughters would know their worth. Pray that we would be vigilant when it comes to the safety of our children. For heaven's sake, pray!The Dreamcatcher FoundationDress a Girl Around the World