Happy Halloween!

It is October 31st and there is a slight chill in the air. Halloween is here. I love Halloween! Even as I write that statement I feel that somehow I have to defend it. Here is what I love:

I love that we take a day to dress in costume. How fun is that? When else can you pretend to be your wildest fantasy? Then you walk around with a sack and people willingly dump loads of candy into it. It is every kid's dream!!! Our family always scrunches together on the couch in the days preceding, and watches Linus once again wait for the Great Pumpkin to rise from the pumpkin patch while sipping cocoa or cider.

My father grew up in a very strict home and did not get to participate in many fun childhood experiences--including Halloween. When he became an adult, he made sure that we got the full Halloween experience. He would drive us from neighborhood to neighborhood, often in the cold and rain, until his watch showed 9:00pm, and we fell into an exhausted heap in the back seat of the car. He would then look back at us, grin really broadly and say, "Just one more!" We would trick-or-treat until every porch light was black! Those memories are some of my favorite.

Within Christendom there is a terrible disagreement about this particular day. I understand the idea of not promoting Satanic things. But I don't believe that dressing in costume and getting tons of candy is doing that. This holiday, like almost all others we celbrate, has been changed from its pagan origins. Do you have a Christmas tree or only a nativity scene? What about being in the world but not of it? Taking bad and turning it into good?

We were never allowed to wear scary costumes. My children don't wear scary costumes. They enjoy the dressing up as silly, idealized, or historical character--anything they want to be. We go to our church festival then ring doorbells until, as me with my father, all of the porch lights are black. At that point we go home, sort candy, and drift off to sleep with wonderful new memories of time spent celebrating childhood with the people we love most.

In the timeline of life, I have few years with my children. Already, my eldest two want to spend the evening with friends instead of family, and that's ok. I want their memories of childhood and growing up to be full of celebration. I want the time I have with them to be remebered as good and celebratory.

Wherever you are and whatever you believe, I hope you have a safe, fun-filled night.

What's Your Name?

I saw this elsewhere and had to post it here. Feel free to swipe it...

10.WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother & father's middle name)
Jolene William

9. NASCAR NAME: (name of your mother's dad, fathers dad)
Ralph Billy

8. STARWARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, any 2 letters of your first name)
Croma, Crome

7. DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, fav animal)
Chocolate Brown Monkey

6. SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born)
Jolene Tulsa

5. SUPERHERO NAME: (2nd fav color, fav alcohol drink, add "THE" to the beginning)
The Purple Margherita

4. FLY GIRL/GUY NAME: (1st letter of 1st name, 1st 3 letters of your last)
M-Cro

3. GANGSTA NAME: (fav ice cream flavor, fav cookie)
Vanilla Chocolate Chip

2. ROCK STAR NAME: (current pets name, current street name)
Cosette 36(?)

1. STRIPPER NAME: (name of your fav perfume/cologne, fav candy)
Amarige Hot Tamales (that's scary)

Beautiful Scars

Scars are ugly. They are a blight on otherwise smooth, congruous skin. I have several scars--more than my share.

I have a scar on the edge of my right nostril. When I was 4 years old, I decided to climb up the wobbly table on which our television stood, to perch myself atop the television. Why? I have no idea. I have always been adventurous, and though I don't remember my reasoning or ultimate goal, I imagine I thought it to be an exciting quest. Unfortunately, I slew no dragons, rescued no helpless female, and topped no mountain. Instead I fell. And also unfortunately, I pulled the television over with me. It landed on my face. Now I have an ugly ridge on my right nostril in remembrance.

I have a scar on my forehead from my second bout with chicken pox at the age of nine. It looks like the hole in the new jar of peanut butter after one of my children scoops a spoonful out. Scooped out skin.

When I was 14 my father (against my will) was teaching me how to slap bunt. As I swung the bat, I squeezed my eyes shut. Apparently, the ball hit the end of my bat and aimed itself for the largest target it could find--my nose. I guess technically it's not a scar, just a large lump on my until-then-perfectly-straight nose. I still have trouble breathing sometimes.

I have a small scar on each breast and on the front of each thigh. When I was about 11, we were camping in the mountains. My father sent my brothers and me to gather firewood. In the dark. With one small rather weak lantern. He decided it would be funny to jump out from behind a tree and scare us. He definitely scared me. I ran as hard as I could.... directly into a barbed wire fence. I have never seen my mother so angry with my father.


The largest scar on my body is on the back of my left thigh. When I was 10 years old, I climbed the fence in our front yard to get to the bus stop. I could see the school bus coming down the street. We lived in south Texas and most of our yard was one giant mud pit pocked with crawdad holes. I didn't want to get yucky muddy, and the clean way through the yard was also the long way through the yard. Because of all of these factors, it seemed reasonable to climb the fence--the fastest way from point A to point B (thank you math teachers of the world) is a straight line--over the fence. Upon topping the fence, I began to panic. The bus was edging ever closer. All my bus stop friends began chanting, "Just jump! Just jump!" So I did. I thrust myself backward off the fence and directly onto a reflector pole that, until that moment, I never knew existed. It removed a nice sized chunk from the back of my thigh.

I have just one more scar you can see. It is not actually a scar but rather a group of scars. These scars are not from any kind of accident. They are stretch marks from pregnancy. The skin is thin and discolored, yet I don't view them in the same way I view the other scars on my body. I guess they are ugly, and yes I wish I had smooth perfectly beautiful skin. But as I look at those scars, I don't roll my eyes at my stupidity or cringe at the memory of pain. When I look at those scars, they speak to me. They remind me of new life. They speak of babies that needed just a little more room and so the skin had to give, had to sacrifice. They speak of tenderness and love. If it is possible, those scars are beautiful.

I have other scars. You can’t physically see them. I can only see them when I close my eyes. They are not discolorations on my skin but blights on my heart. They are scars of betrayal and abuse, scars of stolen innocence and exploitation. They are the scars of bad choices, lies, broken promises, shame, bitterness, and guilt.

There is no more open seeping wound. I have forgiven and moved on. But the scars are there. They will always be there. But my question is: Can scars be beautiful?

If I reflect on my life, I see decisions I have made, paths I’ve taken. I see heartache, brokenness, and anguish. But that is not all I can see. I see strength. I see endurance. I see forgiveness and mended relationships. I see healing. So those scars, those reminders of old wounds aren’t that at all. They are reminders of perseverance and growth, and I guess, to answer my own question, like the scars on my belly are beautiful, so are the scars on my soul.

Grays

Tobey just found his first gray hair. He nearly had heart failure.

:)

Hug From Daddy

Once, a friend told me a story about how God reached down and sent her a small token to remind her of His faithfulness and that He was listening, when she was beginning to walk through a trial. She called it a "hug from God." Today God gave me a hug like that.

We have been walking through a trial for many months now. For a while, I believed it to be hopeless, but God has shown me how very much he loves me and is willing to walk me through. I know that we will make it through, however, I see the mountains still looming in front of me and say, "I-gulp-trust you Lord. I know you are faithful to make a way EVEN THOUGH I cannot see one tiny glimpse of a solution, and I mean God it would really be so much easier to trust you if I could just see a hint of what you have planned, pleeeeeease." (That is how my conversations with God are--long and rambling run-on sentences.)

[Through most of that trial I was very alone because I felt that I didn't really have anyone to whom I could turn with my burdens. I asked God to draw me closer to the women with whom I go to church. I wanted a group that I could trust to go to God, to intercede for me.]

A few days ago I sat thinking about all of the things ahead of us with (yes I admit it) a little bit of fear, taking deep breaths, practicing relaxation techniques ("I trust you Father. I trust you Father. You have good plans for me..." etc.) I was thinking about myself a bit, and I prayed a small (I would say simple, but I have a strange ability to make the most simple thing extremely complex) prayer. This is what I said:

"God, we have a lot of stuff going on. Thank you so much for providing for us. You are truly awesome. I know I've been asking you for a lot lately, and I don't want to be selfish, but I don't ask you for much for myself. I'm looking at all these things that still have to be paid and I'm a bit nervous, but I know you can handle it. God, Christmas is coming and we're not making any more now than we were six months ago. You're gonna have to provide a miracle, and I know you can and will. Please. And all of those things are really important and I need you to come through for us, and I have no doubt that you will, but, if it's not too much trouble, I have one personal, I guess selfish request. If it's not too much trouble, I'd really like to have some new clothes. I'm down to my last pair of jeans and they're pretty shabby, and..well Father, it's pretty embarassing to wear the same pants over and over. I only have two pair of dress slacks left, and the shirts and dresses aren't looking too good either. And, Lord I know I'm pushing it, but I'd really like to have a few pieces of jewelry. I have just a couple of those too, and I really like jewelry. But if it comes down to it, and I can't have both, please just provide the other stuff, and I'll be fine. Thanks. And (hurriedly) if I'm being too selfish please just disregard this whole conversation except the stuff about bills and Christmas. Thanks again."

And I went about my way.

This afternoon a friend from church asked me if I wanted to go hang out with her while our kids had Christmas play practice. I was really excited and of course agreed. We went to one store and then to the mall. It was nice to just walk around and chat. We went into a store that neither of us had ever ventured into. We found some really pretty vases and carved wooden things. There was also some pretty pieces of jewelry. Well you can probably guess where this story is going. Without my knowledge, this sweet friend bought a lovely bracelet for me. It has the Fruit of the Spirit engraved on it. I almost cried. He answered two prayers at once.

It was my hug from my Abba Father.

Apology to Cell Phones

I was reading a blog in which a woman mention her battered old cell phone. It brought my poor tattered cell to mind. I am seriously hard on cell phones. I find my cell buried under much junk in the bottom of my purse. I drop it (almost daily) onto various surfaces. I put it into the back pocket of my jeans and sit on it, forget about it, etc.

This is my apology to all the cell phones who have had the misfortune to drift into my life. Since I can't go to the phones and make amends, admit my mistakes and beg forgiveness, I will confess my sins against them here. Hopefully, you can look down from wherever you have gone and forgive me.

I'm sorry to the cell phone I stuck in the back pocket of my jeans and forgot about. I called you from the home phone, but since you were in the washer, and subsequently in the dryer, you couldn't alert me to the danger.

I'm sorry to the cell phone that fell out of my purse in the driveway. I didn't know you were gone until after the tire had flattened you.

I'm sorry to the phone I dropped as the car door was slamming. You tried to work after you had been cut in half, but alas, our time together was through.

I'm sorry to my current phone which slipped from my shirt pocket as I was inspecting my bathroom toilet post-scrub. At least you fell into clean water.

And last but not least, I'm sorry to my husband's last phone lying alone after falling from my pocket, to the bottom of the port-a-potty. I'm sorry, but I couldn't bring myself to rescue you.

Some heavy cream & skim milk= Half & Half

So this afternoon, as I was waiting in the middle school parking lot, I had a good cry and spoke with a irreplaceable friend.

Aside: My friend is incredible. It is truly hard to find a friend who really "gets" me (if I can be excused for using such a term). A few years ago when my heart sister (again excuse the juvenile term) moved away, I was torn apart. I don't give my heart easily, and for her to leave was a crushing blow. For several years now I thought I would not find another person who could love and accept me like my Dallas bound friend. But I was wrong. God brought another friend into my life who, like Dallas girl, understands me. Both of them love me and my quirks, my strengths, my thoughts, my innermost me. Neither one is afraid to tell me when I'm wrong. Or that I have a giant booger hanging out of my nose. But more than that, they don't love and accept me in spite of my weaknesses, they love me for them--as part of who "me" is. Remind me in moments of lamentation how fortunate I am to have been blessed with two friends like that.

She felt my indignation and heartbreak, encouraged me, and got me back on my feet. I dried my eyes quickly and smiled before the kids came out. They got in the car, bouncing with exciting middle school news ( all about "Mr. So & So, and Mrs. So & So who had her gallbladder out today, and this kid in gym class....."). As I listened I turned contemplative.

My son brings me to uncontrollable giggles and makes me cringe in fear. I see so much of me in him. This is the conversation we had driving across town to drop my daughter at dance:

"Mom, I don't like motorcycles."

"Oooo, I do! But I understand, because it can be scary."

"No it's not that. It's just that I don't ever want a motorcycle."

"Why is that?"

"Because I'm afraid that I would want to be reckless and drive crazy--you know, when I'm a teenager."

I love it! He cracks me up! That is exactly like something I would say. That conversation was the catalyst for deeper contemplation of my sweet, no-so-little boy. Like me, he is fiercely loyal. Once he chooses to trust you, he will give you his all; however, don't take that lightly. He does not easily forgive betrayal. And thus begins the cringing. That is me. Is it hereditary? Or has he watched my actions? It has taken me years (or I guess I should really say it has taken God years to teach me, to drag me kicking and screaming in my indignation) to learn how to become more forgiving. I don't give trust lightly. I don't give my secrets, my heart lightly. I take betrayal very seriously. It has taken much work, many hours, and gallons of tears to be where I am today. I have already seen this tendency to react severely to betrayal within friendships and the one boy/girl relationship he's had. Whether or not someone has truly betrayed him is really not relevant. His perception is key. And again I cringe.

I hope for him that learning forgiveness comes more easily to him than it did to me. Something in his favor is that his history is not my history. Although his life has been far from perfect, I believe, I hope, he has fewer obstacles to overcome than I did.

Father, please let him walk an easier path than I.


On the lighter side:

I don't think I'll ever be able to keep my purse clean. I try! I really do! But it doesn't matter how many old receipts, old tissues, wrappers from who knows what that I throw away, the next time I take a peek inside, it's filled again. Ah well, just accept it MJ.



I was in the bathroom at work today, and I looked in the mirror. I made a startling discovery! My face has gotten so fat that I have jowls. ARG! *sigh* I've decided never again to look at my whole face all at one time. The small compact mirror I carry in my purse shows only enough of my face at one time to fool me. If I look at just one part of my face at a time, my eye for example, I look quite beautiful and definitely not fat. Not fat eyeballs here. Thank You Annie, for my tool of deception!

About MJ

In perusing a few blogs, I have noticed how many fun and deeply personal things people reveal, apparently willingly, on blogs. It made me smile. And perhaps makes me a little less self-conscious. So, I think maybe I will too. Here are a few things about me. Some I like, some I don't. But they're all me.


1. I feel that I'm completely unoriginal. It's not that I don't want to be original, I just don't seem to be good at it.

2. I love scary movies, not gory gross slashers (although once in a while those are okay), but good, suspenseful, edge-of-your seat movies. I like the feeling of all the hairs on my arms standing on end while I hide my face behind a pillow. YES! I had a good shiver just thinking about it.

3. I can and do drive a stick.

4. I'm terrified of snakes. I can't even look at them behind glass at the zoo. They are just evil incarnate! My husband and children find this to be a continuing source of amusement.

5. Autumn is my most favorite time of year. I love the crisp jacket-weather. I love the red-gold-brown-orange tangle fluttering across the street as I drive my children to school in the morning. Autumn sends me into a frenzy of baking. I love it!

6. I hate all chocolate pie (that I have ever tasted). I think it's disgusting. I eat part of a small slice at Thanksgiving and Christmas out of obligation. It makes me want to vomit.

7. Pecan pie is my favorite. I could just about eat whole one by myself.

8. I hate it when adults (children too, but adults should really know better) tell me they don't like something they've never tasted. How juvenile. My children know better.

9. I hate bullies. Girl bullies are the worst. I don't like boy bullies, but at least boy bullies beat the heck out of one another and go on with life. Girls cut off all social access, sometimes for all of adolescence, for the poor soul who is the object of wrath. Exclusivity makes my head explode--hand me the duct tape!

10. I fight battles for my children. I'm not ashamed of it and feel no need to justify it.

11. I can never be fair to pedophiles. I want to scratch their eyeballs out. I beg God never to sit me next to a repentant one when I die.

12. I like guy movies. Good action, bad acting. All the bad guys get their dues. Satisfaction.

13. Kirk Cameron was my first crush. Tall, thin, baby-faced. No irony there.

14. When I was a kid I had nightmares every night of my life until I was about 12 years old.

15. Was afraid of the dark until I was about 26 years old.

16. Love cheap detective novels--the stuff my professors called junk fiction. I have insomnia, and they are my Nyquil. If I read something of substance, something that actually required my brain to engage, I could never get to sleep.

17. I'm a terrible speller.

18. I'm much better at grammar (certainly not perfect); although I do have trouble; with that tricky semi;colon.

19. I think the fact that my husband has no butt is very sexy, and I don't care what you think.

20. I hate that I talk (especially when I'm nervous) too much. I can't seem to stop myself. It's sort of like an out-of-body experience--not a good one.

21. I love grocery shopping! It is absolutely one of my favorite things to do. Rows and rows of brightly colored labels all begging, "Pick me! Pick me!" Fresh, beautiful produce, rough skin, smooth skin, fat and round, long and thin, permeating the air with lovely smells. Walking down the isles, letting my imagination work. Discovering foods I never knew existed. Relaxing and creativity inspiring. If I could get someone to pay me to shop for groceries, I think I will have found the perfect job.

22. When I was a little girl I wanted to be a ballerina. A sad state of being in the house in which I grew up. I never got to take any kind of dance classes, so to this day, I cannot dance (with anyone watching). I love the beauty and the grace of it, and I really like the shoes that lace up the dancers legs. Today I settle for the shoes that lace of my legs. I secretly feel like a ballerina when I wear them.

23. I have long, disobedient, black hairs on my big toes. It disturbs me. For a while I waxed them, and for a slim moment in time, I would have beautiful sleek toes. But, for some reason I cannot understand, the hair always grows back. Right now I'm trying the "ignore them and they'll go away" parenting style on those creepy little hairs. I keep peeking to see, but they're still there, long and black. I'll keep you posted.

24. Love iced tea.

25. I have tremendous guilt about the mean things I did to my younger brothers when we were children.

26. Love to knit.

27. Love vampire books, stories, and movies.

28. Have a serious addiction to Diet Dr. Pepper. What? I'm working on it... sort of... sometimes...

29. Not terribly patient. I think that God is trying to teach me something about that though--He keeps putting people in my life that nearly cause me to have an aneurism with the effort of trying not to knock some sense into them.

30. Love rock music!

31. I suck a playing pool, but I love to watch my husband play!

32. Guitar Hero rocks!

33. But I can't get past medium. Arg! It is so frustrating! I beat it on Med over & over, but my pinkie is stupid, and I just can't get it on hard!! It makes me so mad!!!!

34. Casie Lynch is always my character. In my dreams I look like that in real life.

35. I adore the Beatles.

36. Maybe too stubborn.

37. Got married 2 weeks after I turned 18. Way too young.

38. I grew up poor.

39. My birthday is August 29.

40. Unfortunately, so Michael Jackson's.

41. My husband really is my best friend.

42. Even when he's a jerk.

43. Even when I'm a jerk.

44. I love to sing.

45. I would probably pick up every stray (animal and human) if my husband didn't have way more sense than me.

46. I don't have any tatoos, but I really want one.

47. I didn't freak out when I turned 30.

48. Or 31.

49. I can't stand fakes.

50. I hate vacant platitudes. Just opt to say nothing.

51. Drive too fast.

52. Cook just about everything from scratch.

53. Love very spicy food. Mmmmmmm..........

54. Got pregnant when I was 16.

To be continued...................

My friend

In trying to get over this fear of exposure, I think I'll just dive right in:



I have a friend for whom my heart breaks. She was broadsided a few days ago by peole she thought cared very much about (or at least liked) her and her family.


But it turns out that maybe that is not the case. Just last week these same people walked by her and hugged her on pretense of appreciating her and her husband. And now they have gone behind her and in an underhanded, thoughtless, self-seeking way, poured buckets of slimy stench over her head when she thought it was safe to look away. Because she trusted them. Because she believed them.

And it makes me sad.

She has not chosen me as a close friend, so I have not been a party to the conversations I know she has had. I have not been able to give her the comfort I so desire her to have--because she is my friend and I love her dearly. I told her how much I love her and how much I love her family. But I know it didn't help. Not really. I watch her worship when I sing and it moves me. I don't think she can ever know how her worship touches my soul. She worships with such reckless abandon, such overflow of love that I am awed and moved, and I often think, "that is how I want to worship." But she didn't do that this time. She stood with her eyes closed and only raised her hands slightly, tenatively, just for a moment--as if she was unable to open herself up, be that vulnerable.

And it made me angry.

Later I hugged her and told her how I missed her worship and she made some excuse. But I knew.

And it made me sadder.

And it made me angrier.

I wanted to go to battle for my friend! I wanted vindication! I wanted to tell those people where they could take their nastiness. But what good would I do? None. I would just stir up TROUBLE. And that's not what my lovely friend needs. She needs God's vindication. And He is faithful to vindicate. But it is so hard to wait for His time.

Often I can hold my tongue and wait for God to be my champion, but it is so hard to see those I love broadsided. (Maybe that's not entirely true. I guess I have a hard time waiting for God to justify. I want justice and I want it NOW! So I guess it might be better to say, "Sometimes I can hold my tongue blah, blah, blah.") I want to fight for her. I shake my fist and scream, "You'll never get away with this!" But then I know they will, for now. There's nothing I can do. I'm helpless. (I hate that. I hate feeling helpless!) And then I have to admit that whatever I could do, whatever justice I deemed fit wouldn't be very just.

And I have to sigh. And shake my head. And I once again see my imperfections clearly under the light of God's standards.
What a wretched soul I am.

Naked

I sit here afraid to type anything. I feel so exposed even though I've said nothing. Like I'm standing naked in front of a million strangers and they're all staring at me.

What to say. I purposed to use this blog as a release, a meandering of my thoughts, my life, my heart--a journal if you will. But the nakedness of it all.

It seems so silly. Probably no one will read it. And if anyone does that person proably doesn't know me, doesn't know my family, my history. That person wouldn't be able to point me out in a crowd or come knocking at my door. Still I'm afraid.

Afraid of what? Seems silly. Afraid of rejection from strangers? Maybe. Afraid to be laid open, my soul naked, bared to the world? Probably. But still I write. I feel I've nothing to say, but so much I want to. Still...

I'll start here. This small glimpse of my soul, my fear of nakedness, of being known is enough for now. Then maybe a little more. And maybe by then I won't care who reads it, who sees me--knows me in all of my nakedness.