Making Room for All the Good Stuff

 A few months back, I started my second Celebrate Recovery step study. This program for finding freedom from "hurts, habits, and hang-ups" follows the same 12 steps from Alcoholics Anonymous, but from a Biblical standpoint. The first time I completed the steps, I found it difficult to probe deeply into my past because I was weathering the agony of divorce at the time. This time, I'm struggling to let go of emotional and spiritual pain from my Hashimoto's thyroiditis flare-up last summer and fall. 

Today I took a day off to work on my personal inventory, a critical part of step 4. I could have done it at home, but I wanted a quiet place where I wouldn't be distracted by piles of laundry and dirty dishes. My friend and coworker Melodie graciously offered me her little Air BNB apartment, A Little Bit Country. "I want to contribute to your project," she said.

She did more than just give me a bed and a quiet place to get alone with God. When I arrived yesterday afternoon, she took me for a walk through her lovely neighborhood out in the country, interrupting my chatter over my latest crush only to point out this abandoned church.

After that, she and her husband Brad fixed a delightful dinner of grilled chicken and vegetables with grilled cinnamon pineapple slices. Wow! The dinner was almost as enjoyable as the conversation; Melodie recounted the most entertaining stories about her mission trips to Latin America and a journey to a Mayan village for a college research project.

I woke just before nine this morning to a wonderfully quiet house and some strong coffee Brad had left for me. Since my doctor advised me to avoid coffee due to its acidity and the possibility of inflammation, I usually enjoy only one cup a week, diluted 50 percent with chicory. The full-strength coffee, on a Thursday, felt extra special. I figured it would fortify me for the daunting task of reviewing my entire life and listing everyone who'd hurt me as well as everyone whom I'd hurt. Another of Melodie's rich gluten-free brownies couldn't hurt either, I reasoned. 

A Better Sweater

I started this entry on 9/27/20, and tonight I will finish it at last.

Over the last 15 years or so, my faith has carried me through anxiety, health issues, severe stress, heartbreak, and loneliness. The tougher the battles, the deeper my roots grew, and the more precious my Beloved became to me. I'm not saying I didn't struggle; if you've been reading long, you know that isn't true. But through it all, I always leaned on a deep trust in God's faithfulness, and what a comfort that was.

Last July, a combination of prolonged work stress and a drug interaction triggered a severe flare-up of Hashimoto's thyroiditis, an autoimmune disorder that I've had since my twenties. The flare-up led to chronic pain, inflammation, digestive problems, weight loss, and mania due to prolonged insomnia. I was out of work for five months, and a slew of other problems ensued which I won't burden you with. 

Somewhere along the way, I felt so alone and so broken that my faith suffered a grievous injury. I felt betrayed and abandoned by even my Beloved. Although God continued to take care of me in beautiful ways, and although He restored my physical, mental, and financial health, the nagging fear that He couldn't be trusted drove a wedge between us.

I never turned my back on Him. I continued to pray, read my Bible, and meditate on scripture, yet nothing seemed to penetrate the sadness that overshadowed me. On a walk in the park a couple of weeks ago, I told Jesus, "In the past, I used to feel like there was a veil between me and you. I felt that you were near, but I couldn't get close to you. Back then, you helped me cross that veil. But now, it's worse. I feel..."

I paused on the trail as I searched for an apt comparison. "I feel like I'm in a tomb." Tears slipped down my cheeks, and the darkness was so heavy that I could feel its weight. "Please, Jesus. Please help me," I prayed. 

Even Before I Call

I wrote this entry this past Sunday (December 8), but couldn't get it to post that day. The Friday that I refer to in the entry was one week ago.

Friday was a stressful day for me, though I felt pretty good physically. I spent the majority of the day working on a cover letter, but I wasn’t satisfied with it. And then I completed all but the last screen of an online job application, only to be kicked back to the home screen without any of my changes being saved. 

“I’ve got to get out of here,” I said aloud. “I can’t do this one more minute.” 

The afternoon was mild, so I mounted my bike and followed my usual route over the park trails. I tried to keep my thoughts in the moment, to focus on the few remaining green leaves and the sound of the water, but my thoughts kept returning to the job applications. 

About halfway through my ride, I had a thought so pathetic that I shocked myself: “In April I’ll be 50. I wonder how much longer I will live.” I thought about the longevity of my parents and grandparents--thank you, Jesus--and figured I could have another 40 years or more left. “I’m so tired,” I thought. “I want to be at the end.”

Immediately I repented. “I’m sorry, God. No, I don’t want to skip past my whole life. I don’t want to skip any of it because I know you work in all things for my good. You promised me abundant life. This isn’t abundant life… being bound by fear and worry. Please help me take hold of the joy that you have for me in this time of trouble.” 

Still on the Path

I’ve missed you guys so much these last weeks. I think of you often and want to tell you my stories, but either I get too busy wrecking and re-cleaning my kitchen, or I decide I don’t have anything worth saying. I keep waiting to learn the lesson so I can share something uplifting with you, but I’m just not there yet. 

So I will just tell you like it is. I’ll start with the good, tell you about the parts that don’t feel so good, and end with the great.

The Good

I have been following my personalized autoimmune diet for about three and a half months now. I eat only the foods that provoked the lowest level of antibodies on my blood test. I enjoy a fair variety of red meat, fish, poultry, vegetables, and fruits--all organic and pasture raised so as to avoid toxins from pesticides. 

Most of the pain that I had during my acute flare-up of Hashimoto’s thyroiditis and prolonged bout of insomnia has faded out. I sleep soundly each night, and my energy level is good, especially on days when the weather and my schedule permit me to ride my bike.

I no longer react to fragrances nor to essential oils, which I now apply to my thyroid daily (lemongrass, frankincense, and myrrh). When I react to a food, I no longer get tachycardia or bradycardia (high or low heart rate). I don’t get manic any more; that was the effect of severe insomnia, which creates a chemical state in the brain that is remarkably similar to intoxication.

In many ways, I feel healthier than I have felt in years:

• I’ve gained 10 of the 20 pounds I had lost since last May.
• I no longer get shaky and anxious when I am hungry, nor do I need to eat every 1.5 to 2 hours. 
• My hair is getting thicker.
• The outer edges of my eyebrows are growing in. (Hypothyroid patients typically lose the outer third of their eyebrows.)
• My nails are thicker, and they no longer split.
• Despite being off all thyroid medication for nearly 5 months, my energy level is good and I still have none of the typical hypothyroid symptoms except dry skin and cold intolerance.
• After nine years of perimenopausal symptoms, my periods have become more regular and the night sweats have stopped. This should also mean that my iron levels are returning to normal.
• My resting heart rate is lower, which contributes to deeper sleep.
• My digestion is much better. The frequent stomach pain, reflux, and diarrhea have almost completely stopped. Better digestion leads to better immune function and better mental health.

After two months of solid sleep, I feel ready to return to work and am now looking for a job. In the interim, I get myself out of the house and satisfy my desire to be with people by volunteering at my local library and at the junior high where I used to work. I particularly enjoy leading bilingual story hour at the library, but my happiest days each week are the ones when I’m working one-on-one with struggling readers at the junior high.

At the end of a happy day

I have committed my latest scripture passage to memory and find great comfort in meditating on it daily. Although I usually can’t feel God working, I do believe that this trial is achieving for me an eternal glory that far outweighs the struggles. One day I will share the whole story with you, and then “all of this [will be] for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people will cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God.” (2 Corinthians 4:15)

The Parts that Don’t Feel So Good

I spend much of my time feeling alone and lonely. Of course I see Allyson, but she’s a typical busy teen. I see my family every week or two and my friends occasionally, and I often talk with them on the phone, but sometimes I just want a flesh-and-blood hug. I want to see the tears of laughter on their cheeks when we share a belly laugh. I want to just hang out.

Some days when it’s raining or too cold for me to get out on my bike in the sun, I feel unbearably sad and hopeless. I have to remind myself over and over that this time of trouble is light and momentary when compared to a lifetime or to eternity. I know that brighter days are waiting for me just around the corner.

Worse than the loneliness is the anxiety that tries to reclaim its hold on me. The main trigger is agonizing over my financial position and over the heavy responsibility of choosing a direction for my career. My heart wants to return to teaching, but the timing is wrong, and it’s hard to imagine taking care of myself adequately while managing such a crushing workload. Taking a job that I could leave at work each day and where I could earn more money makes sense, yet it also feels like turning my back on what God called me to do. 

Another trigger is fear that my condition could be worsening. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve had occasional pain in my joints and the residual pain in my skin has become more intense on some days. It could be something that I ate, but I suspect that the main cause is the stress of job hunting and applying for social services to help me through this transition. 

One moment that brought unexpected tears was a trip to Walmart with Allyson and my sister Amy, who was Christmas shopping. As I glanced at aisles and aisles of items I could not afford, my mind flashed back to countless mundane trips to Walmart. On those other days, despite my careful budgeting, I could always toss a few small items into the cart without the slightest concern. How could I not have known how blessed I was? Would I be able to do that again, or would my illness prevent me from earning a good living going forward?

My worst anxiety gripped me last Tuesday, as I drove home from my first trip to the food pantry. It seemed impossible that I could be a recipient at the same charity where I once volunteered with my church home group. This isn’t supposed to happen to a person who adheres religiously to the Dave Ramsey budget, nor to a person who had scarcely been sick a day in her life. What if I couldn’t find a job? What if I lost the house?

I rubbed my sternum with one hand and switched on the blinker with the other, glancing twice over my shoulder as I merged onto the off ramp. “God, I need you,” I called out. I pictured Jesus seeking out a lost lamb. “Come and get me, Daddy!” Warm tears cut trails down my cold cheeks, and I dashed them away so that Allyson wouldn’t see.

A few blocks later, I pulled into the garage and sat for a moment clutching the steering wheel and breathing deeply. “I know you’re with me,” I whispered. “This light and momentary trial is just for a season. Even if I can’t see it, even if I can’t feel it, I know you are working in me. You will finish the work that you started in me, Father.” I drew in a few more big breaths, my shoulders relaxing as I  imagined rolling my burdens into Jesus’s capable hands.

I rubbed my knuckles across my eyes one more time and called through the house door for Allyson. “Come help me unload the groceries!”

“See what I got?” I said, with a determined smile. “Look at these.” I pointed at some miniature tarts that I would be unable to eat.. “I think they’re… pumpkin.”

“Nice!” Allyson replied, wearing a matching determined smile. “And ramen?? Cool.” I grinned; ramen noodles have been a source of contention between us due to their absolute lack of nutritional value, but I’d brought home one pack for her, along with several boxes of Kraft mac and cheese.

While we made room in the impossibly crowded pantry, I explained the other resources I’d learned of that morning: food stamps, help with utilities and Internet, and job placement agencies.

“In about an hour, I have an interview with Sprout’s [one of my favorite grocery stores],” I said. “I’m supposed to take my resume, but I don’t have time to update it from when I was looking for a teaching job. Maybe I-”

“Mom!” Allyson rolled her eyes. “If they hired Ethan with zero experience, you have nothing to worry about. Just relax.” 

“You’re right, baby.” I decided to work on the cowlick on the back of my scalp instead of modifying the resume.

The interview went okay, but I left feeling unsettled about the idea of working there, mainly because there would be no set schedule, and I’d probably work well past 10 at night. My sleep is still one of my main priorities, and I guard it carefully.

I explained all of this to Amy on Thanksgiving day two days later. Tears filled my eyes when I said, “It’s not that God isn’t talking to me; it’s just that I can’t get quiet enough to hear Him. I know if I could just be still, He would lead me.”

“Sarah, remember that the steps of a righteous man are ordered by God,” Amy replied with a warm smile. “No matter what job you get, whether it’s a transitional job or the next position God has chosen for you, you can be sure that it will be the right place. God is ordering your steps, and He is going to provide for all of your needs.”

A church song from my childhood sprang to the forefront of my memory, and I took a moment to marvel at the power of music both to preserve and to resurrect memories. In a voice just loud enough for her ears, I sang, “Rejoice for the steps… of a righteous man… they are ordered of God, they are ordered of God…. Remember that song, Amy?”

She shook her head.

I kept singing. “In the time of trouble, God will uphold you. God will sustain you. God will preserve you. In the time of trouble, He will lift you up. So rejoice; your steps are ordered of God…. Oh, thank you, Amy. I needed to hear this.”

Amy recounted the story of her transitional job at Radio Shack a few years back. “Remember, I didn’t want to take it because the pay was too low. But it was the perfect place for me, a place to heal.”

“Yes, didn’t you have a really supportive boss there?”

She nodded and told me how she’d regained her confidence there, and how God had then given her an even better job than the one she’d lost.

Back at home a couple of hours later, I sat at my table listening to the first Christmas songs of the season. Just like every other year, my heart thrilled to the wonder of Jesus coming to dwell among us, becoming Emmanuel, God With Us. 

And then I looked up at the collection of scriptures taped to my refrigerator, the ones that got me through the toughest work year ever last year. “Wait for the LORD,” I read aloud. “Be strong and let your heart take courage; yes, wait for the LORD.” (Psalm 27:13-14).

There at my table, with Christmas music in one ear and the faint giggles of Allyson and her two cousins in my other, I felt hope bubbling up deep inside me, a hope spontaneous and delightfully unexpected. I thought about the scripture I'd just read: “Let your heart take courage.” That must mean that my heart wants to be courageous. Yes, of course it does. According to the Apostle Paul, my heart can overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit… if I trust in Him. (Romans 15:13)

Well, I’m learning that it’s a lot harder to trust God when you’re in pain, you’re unemployed, and your bank account is dangerously low. I realize that that is the point. I know that God has allowed all of this for my good and for His ultimate glory when His purpose is fulfilled in me. 

As I said at church this morning to my friend Alicia, who has gone through her own terrifying hard times and come through to the other side, there are some lessons that can’t be learned any other way. How can I learn to rely on God alone if I still think I can rely on myself? 

What I most want to learn through this trial is not to put so much importance on my emotions. I want to stop judging my spiritual walk based on how I feel at any given moment. I know God loves me just the way I am, and I want to learn to do the same. I want to “fix my eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen” (2 Corinthians 4:18). 

Now For The Great...

God has been so faithful to me through these last few months. I could tell you so many stories of divine appointments and sacred echoes, but you wouldn’t have time to read them all; I really need to start writing more regularly again.

I will share just one story, the most recent. Through a friend at my Spanish-speaking church, Palabra Viva, I found a hair stylist who works out of her home. She does a great job and only charges $12.50 for a basic cut, without styling. 

This past Wednesday, the day after my visit to the food pantry, I prayed all the way to her house, asking God to help me trust Him and let go of my fears. For the last couple of miles, happy tears flowed as I sang along with the radio. The lines that moved me most were: “So I will run into the waves / As courage comes to take fear’s place / With perfect love, perfect love.”

“Please, Lord… let your perfect love take fear’s place,” I breathed. “Help me believe.”

The first thing I noticed when Patty opened her door was her broad smile, but then my eyes were drawn to her T-shirt: “FAITH over FEAR.” My heart quickened, and fresh tears shimmered in my vision. “Oh, I needed to see that today,” I told her. “It echoes the message God just gave me through a song. Have you heard ‘What Can Take Away My Hallelujah’ ?”

“I love that song,” she said.

While she snipped at my overgrown locks, we talked about my health struggles and my current dilemma over my career path. Patty shared her own experiences with unemployment and changing career aspirations, and the faithfulness of God.

Like Amy, she encouraged me to surrender my will to God and to trust Him to lead me and provide for me. She assured me that my emotions are normal and urged me not to be too hard on myself. On my way out, we held hands and prayed for one another, and she told me to contact her any time.

That evening, she sent me a text message with a meme that gave me chills. “We are hunted down but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed (2 Corinthians 4:9),” 

“That is a verse from my current memory passage,” I replied. “It’s very special to me.”

“Amen!” she answered.

I marveled at God’s kindness and tender love for me. How kind of Him to bless me with a cheap haircut, a new sister, and a sacred echo to show me that I am still on the path that He has chosen for me, that my steps truly are ordered by Him.

I look forward to sharing with you whatever I find around the bend.

Looking for My Joy

As I mentioned in my previous posts, my body is in excellent health. My sleep is much better overall, and that means the episodes of mania are fewer and farther between. The mania only occurs when I lose a whole night or nearly a whole night of sleep. Physiologically, chemically, severe insomnia is almost identical to being intoxicated: mania.

The cause of my sleepless nights at this stage is not reactions to food. It is anxiety over being alone for another day, another day, another day. As I mentioned in a previous entry, God is sending me friends, but typically they can only come on the weekend. The neighbors are busy, my family is far, and Allyson is withdrawing from me because she is 13, which is perfectly normal at this stage of adolescence, but she thinks it is because of my illness. That is partly true, but I know from all the mothers in my life that girls usually have conflict with their mothers when they hit puberty. Allyson runs away at the faintest hint of conflict because she is afraid.... afraid of losing me to my illness.

More anxiety arises in me because I also am afraid of losing my daughter. I was so sick for so long, and there were vacations, and I had to stay with my mom and dad for a month, etc. In all of that, Allyson and I were separated. We are struggling to rebuild our relationship, and she keeps leaving every time we have any sort of disagreement. She thinks she is the only teenager whose mom embarrasses her!

This is making me really sad, and my joy has departed. You can't manufacture joy when you are legitimately lonely and heartbroken. You can listen to music. You can exercise. You can walk in the park. You can dance to a catchy tune on the radio. You could ride your bike if you could find a way to get the tires fixed. You can go to Pilates and start your own Zumba class in your house.

You can pray even when you can't feel a hint of God's love even though your head knows He is with you and He is good and He loves you. You can choose to praise Him even though your heart feels like a stone.

Hugs help, but when you are alone you can't get those, except on Wednesday at Bible study and also at church if you go to a church where they know you. Sometimes I lose sleep on the weekends when I am around Allyson and feel rejected, and then I can't drive to my own church 30 minutes away. So I get hugs once a week or so.

I am trying so hard to find joy, but it does not work that way. Joy is like a butterfly. You can watch for it, you can wonder at it when it alights on a bush next to you or even lands on your shoulder. But you can't grab for it. It will fly away. You can't force joy. You have to let it in.

In the past, for many years, I struggled with anxiety. If you've been reading long, you know how I battled that: with scripture. I found scriptures about peace and security, and I read them out loud over and over and over whether I felt safe and peaceful or not. Over the course of three weeks or so, that stubborn anxiety fled. I've had to do the same thing whenever I had a relapse, and I still do it. The sticky notes are still on my kitchen cabinets.

Now I realize I need to do the same thing with joy. This week, the enemy is trying to put depression on me because of my prolonged loneliness and longing for my daughter's love, but I am not going to receive that "gift" from him nor that label. I am going to meditate on scriptures about love and joy and delight; I am going to speak my joy into existence.

I need your help. Will you please comment with your favorite scriptures on joy? I will make more stickies and memory cards, and I will start meditating on joy and thanking God for joy until it is so. However long that takes. God's word is truth; it is Jesus. Jesus is THE way, THE truth, THE life. His Word never returns void. My joy will return, and I will not be grabbing for it. I will be allowing it to alight on me once again, just as it did in Costa Rica this past June.

Please pray also for reconciliation between me and my daughter Allyson. Pray that my grievously wounded heart will heal, and that hers will as well. I would also appreciate any advice from parents who have experienced conflict with their adolescent children, and what they did to get through this painful phase.

Thank you always for reading, for loving me, and for supporting me. I love you.

Recent Picture When Ethan Brought Allyson
to Visit Me at My Mom's House (July 2019)

Un Lugar de Sanación / A Healing Place

EN ESPAÑOL ABAJO

[Here is another bilingual travelogue entry, chronicling both my travel experiences and my progress with Spanish in a Costa Rican language immersion program. Note that all grammar errors in the dialogue are mine.]

ENGLISH TRANSLATION FOLLOWS.

[Todos errores gramatical en el diágolo son mios.]

Después de una cena deliciosa en la casa de Macha, y una larga ducha caliente en la casa de mis nuevos amigos, me acosté en mi habitación tranquila a las 8:30.

Un poco calor quedó del día, y debí que dormir con las ventanas abiertas. (En la casa de Macha, puedo dormir con las ventanas cerrados porque el aire tiene de menos calor.) Aquí no hay ventanas de tela metálicas para protegerse contra bichos, pájaros, y geckos.

En este cuarto, solo las cortinas me separan de las criaturas afueras.¡Esperé que se queden afuera! Me descansé  en la cama y escuché a los insectos, un concierto familiar y también inusual, porque vivo en la ciudad normalmente.

En mis pensamientos, Dios habló. “¿Nina de mis ojos, do you hear me singing over you (me oyes cantar sobre ti)?”

Contesté en inglés, “¡Sí, Papá! Oigo. ¡O, gracias! Gracias por tu amor. Te amo, Amado.”

A Seed of Light

I don't have time to write tonight, but I feel that I must. 

The last three or four weeks have been exceedingly difficult for me. We are implementing a new instructional model that I believe in, but actually putting it into practice has been rough. In theory, most of the class will be reading independently and responding in their journals while I focus on guided reading with a small group.

The reading part is getting better, for the most part. We started several weeks ago with 20 minutes of reading followed by whole-group instruction. That was a battle because over half of my students profess to hate reading. Every day, they'd say, "We're reading again? Why do we have to read every day?"

Each day, I calmly repeated, "This is reading class. That's what we do. You can't get better at reading without reading."

I Love You Even Then

Please forgive my long silence now that school has started. What a year it has been so far! There have been so many blog-worthy moments, but no time to write about them. I've lost track of the days I've gone home wanting to quit, but there have been many other days that made my heart sing. Yesterday was one of the latter, and I've decided that grading papers can wait. 

I thought this year would be easier than my first year because I'd be teaching the same subject and could use some of the same lesson plans. Plus, I learned a lot from my mistakes last year, and I planned to start the year off on the right foot this time.

There was only one problem. Our students came to seventh grade reading at much lower levels than last year; our average student reads at the fourth-grade level, and some of them read at the second-grade level. It only took a few weeks to realize that last year's model was not serving our students. There is no point asking students who cannot read a passage questions about point of view, setting, and author's purpose.

What these students really need is time to actually read. As I've told them all year long, the only way to get better at reading is reading. But there are two problems with that: 1) The ones who need it most despise reading, and we can't force them to do it. They will use any diversionary tactic to avoid reading and to prevent their classmates from reading, too. 2) We are a middle school. We don't have books on the second- and third-grade level. [Our principal just now obtained funding to provide us with leveled libraries for our classrooms, as well as a consultant to help us implement a reading workshop approach. Hallelujah!]

For the last two weeks, I've devoted over half of my class time to silent reading--in theory. But a handful of students have made that time both unfruitful and highly stressful, at least for me. Wednesday was the low point. On the advice of an administrator who has been helping with my most challenging class, I sent every disruptive student to the office and set up parent conferences. Guess how many I sent out in one period? Six. Six! With all of that drama, only the most determined readers could have read anything.

Un Tipo Diferente de Aventura / A Different Kind of Adventure

EN ESPAÑOL ABAJO...

[This is not your typical travelogue, but an important part of my story in Costa Rica. For this bilingual series, I compose the story in Spanish and then translate into English so that we can see my progress in learning the language. (By the way, I'm back home now. It was a difficult adjustment.) Disclaimer: All grammar errors in the dialogue are my responsibility.]

ENGLISH TRANSLATION FOLLOWS.

[Todos errores gramatical en el diágolo son mios.]

¿Se preguntaba sobre que pasó con Walter? Me preguntaba tambien; pensaba sobre esto mucho. 

El domingo siguiente mi tour de su campo, Zeidy y yo debíamos tener una cita en su casa. Recordé el consejo de mi amiga Kim el día antes mi viaje: “Pinta sus uñas. Quizás tú vas a conocer al amor de su vida.”

“No tengo tiempo,” he contestado. 

“Si conoces a un hombre guapo, vas a desear que había pintado sus uñas.”

Decidí que corro el riesgo.

Captured

Oh, I've missed you all! Are you ready for a few teaching stories? For today, I think I'll just tell two or three.

I'm already halfway through my first year back to teaching. What a ride it has been! It's every bit as hard as I remember it being the first time around, 20 years ago. Maybe even harder. But it's also infinitely sweeter. I have been very intentional about forming relationships, and that makes a powerful difference in how my students and I respond to one another.

At the beginning of the year, my new colleagues and I took a two-day course on classroom management called "Capturing Kids' Hearts." This amazing program gave me practical tools to accomplish the goals I had already set for myself. I was so excited to put them into practice. This year I would truly capture their hearts. I would have the opportunity to speak life to students who desperately needed to hear that they mattered, to know that they were loved.

During the Honeymoon Phase, all of those dreams seemed to be coming true. I was absolutely delighted with my students, and the feeling was mutual. Doing what God made me to do felt exhilarating, and I wondered why I'd waited so long to come back.

Don't Miss the Open Doors

I can't believe I only have four weeks left of my 12-week teaching assignment. What a roller coaster it has been. The highs are so high, and the lows... abysmal.

Although my freshmen have a staggering capacity for cooking up all manner of mischief, and some days they nearly drive me to drink, it's typically not their behavior that sometimes tempts me to go back to my old, cushy job. No, it's all the other stuff: the constant grind of prepping for two vastly different audiences (both in age and ability level), never catching up with grading, despairing of ever getting the stacks of graded essays filed in their portfolios, and playing Russian Roulette with printing last-minute copies on the two machines (shared by 120 teachers) that literally break two to three times per week, sometimes at the same time.

On the Select Team

I'm five weeks into my long-term subbing assignment, teaching 9th- and 11th-grade English. I've been saving up so many stories for you that I don't even know where to begin. I guess at the beginning....

My feelings about myself as a teacher have followed the same trajectory as they did the first time I started teaching, over 20 years ago. The first couple of weeks were glorious. I loved my kids, and they loved me. I was elated at how easy and fun it was to engage them, and I felt that I was doing what I was made to do, like a horse running or an eagle soaring.

After a couple more weeks slipped by, harsh reality set in as the honeymoon faded. This is a really, really hard job. All day, every day, I had to juggle the responsibilities and interruptions, the planning, the grading, the challenges of classroom management. And I had to do all of this with a smile on my face, preferably with my sense of humor intact. I went home utterly exhausted each night, too keyed up to sleep soundly.

I'm Leaving It By the Side of the Road

I really shouldn't be blogging tonight. I need to get in bed. But I'm just bursting, and I want to share my heart with you before I know the outcome....

Tomorrow is my very first substitute teaching assignment, with a middle school English class. (I plan to sub about once a week until I run out of vacation time.) I've been putting together a Total Participation Techniques kit with all kinds of supplies to help me create interactivity in the event that I actually get to do some teaching (as opposed to babysitting). I made little whiteboards with heavy-duty transparency sleeves and white card stock, and I picked out some fun mismatched socks to use as erasers. I bought three dozen sticky note pads for annotating in books. I'm making True/Not True hold-up cards, as well as "True with modifications" and "Unable to determine." I've been thinking about ways to incorporate motion and plenty of academic conversation. 

Just yesterday I was marveling that I felt more excited than afraid. In fact, I told myself I'd better curb the enthusiasm just a notch so that I wouldn't be crushed by a reality that doesn't live up to my idealistic notions--which always happens to me. 

I guess I took my own advice.

Last night I was listening to a recorded sermon from my new church, on giving God the first of everything. Pastor Hayes told the story of the Israelites' humiliating defeat at Ai after they had conquered Jericho so triumphantly (Joshua 7). After tearing his clothes and falling on his face before God, the Israelite leader Joshua said, "Alas, O Lord God, why have you brought this people over the Jordan at all, to give us into the hands of the Amorites, to destroy us? Would that we had been content to dwell beyond the Jordan!"

Pastor Hayes then asked if we had ever felt that way when we encountered a challenge or a disappointment. Did we ever just want to turn back from the battle and go back where we were comfortable? 

"Yes, oh yes," I thought, with a stab of fear. Right at that moment, I thought about my comfortable, predictable, safe life--my sometimes boring, always busy life. I wondered what had possessed me to think of venturing out into the unknown. Weren't there other ways I could serve God besides putting myself at the mercy of 25 adolescents? 

The moment the sermon was over, I went straight to my prayer closet and fell on my face before God, though I abstained from tearing my clothes like Joshua. I don't even remember much of what I prayed because I was so tired. I did ask God to help me put him first, and to hold nothing back from him. And then I asked him to hold me close while I fell asleep. He did. I had the most beautiful sleep!

But today fear was crouching at the door, and I let it in. All day long, my stomach churned with unease. I was starting to regret accepting seven jobs, booking myself into November. 

I kept telling myself there was no rational reason to be afraid. Yes, I could fail. I could fall flat on my face. And then I would get back up again and ask God for help. I knew all this with my mind, but my fear continued to build in my heart as the hours passed. 

Thankfully, tonight was Celebrate Recovery. The whole meeting was such an encouragement. The last worship song had me in tears: Hillsong's All I Need is You. Listen to the first line:

Left my fear by the side of the road...

"Why can't I do that?" I thought.

And then we came to:

You hold the universe
You hold everyone on earth
You hold the universe
You hold
You hold

I swayed to the music, feeling that gentle power wrapping around me. How could I fear, knowing God is in control? If he can hold this universe that He made together, of course He can hold me.

Still, I could feel the fear in my upset stomach. Now I was only 12 hours away from stepping off the ledge. I confessed to my CR family that I very much want to leave my fear by the side of the road, but the truth is, I'm still afraid. "But I'm going to do it anyway," I said firmly, despite my trembling lips. "I know that God will be with me, and I trust that next week I will share a testimony of God's goodness with you."

With my small group afterward, I poured out my heart. "I don't know why I'm so inordinately afraid," I said. "But I believe I am going to leave my fear by the side of the road. I'm tired of letting my fear hold me back. I'm tired of dragging these chains around. I'm afraid of failing, but I'd rather chance falling flat on my face than to stay where it's comfortable and miss what God is calling me to do."

Tears streamed down my face as I realized that it was true. I am more afraid of missing my calling than I am of failing.

After everyone had shared, my dear sisters held hands with me as we prayed for all of our needs, and then we enjoyed a group hug. They assured me that they know I will be a blessing to my students, including the ones God has picked out for me tomorrow. They said they are excited to hear what God will do.

On the drive home, I whispered to God that I am ready to go with Him. I trust Him, and I want to see what He has planned for me. I know I have to leave my comfortable place to get there.

One of these days, I really am going to leave my fear by the side of the road. In the meantime, I'm going to trust Jesus to help me face it every time it rears up. As I read in a novel just the other day, I know that being brave doesn't mean you don't have any fear. It means you feel afraid about something, but you do it anyway. Tonight, I'm feeling brave.

This is me being brave, poised on the edge.
I'm going to jump!

I Press On

At 10:40 AM this past Sunday, just one hour and 40 minutes behind schedule, Allyson and I took off on a short vacation to the Texas Hill Country, bound for what we call The Donkey Cabin. We'd stayed in that charming 1840s log cabin exactly two years before on a trip with Ethan and my niece Savannah, and we couldn't get wait to get back there.

Around 2:00, we met up with Allyson's friend Kambry, who'd been on a vacation with her aunt and uncle just 48 minutes from our destination. I took those giddy girls straight to Longhorn Caverns State Park.

When we turned onto the six-mile park road, I was shocked to see a sign for Inks Lake. "Hey, Allyson!" I said. "Remember that lake where we jumped off the cliff into the water that time?"

"Yeah!"

"This is the same road that leads there. What was that? Three years ago? Yes, it was the same trip when we found out we'd gotten the contract on our dream house, right before we watched the fireworks. Wasn't that the best day ever?"

"Yes, it was! Can we go back to Inks Lake?"

"We'll see," I said. "I thought you wanted to go to McKinney Falls this time."

Hang Onto the Raft!

In my last entry, I told you that I've been longing to be free of my need to control everything. If only I could just make a list of necessary actions and check off each step! But the list is the problem. I keep trying harder and harder to let go, but of course it doesn't work that way. All attempts at perfecting myself only leave me hopelessly frustrated, utterly worn out.

I've been praying about this for months, and God has given me an assurance that He is working on me. In the good moments, I've felt not only peace, but exhilaration at the idea of being free. First, I pictured myself clinging to the edge of a cliff, knuckles white, clawing in desperation as I lost my grip. Deliberately, I imagined peeling my fingers loose and letting myself fall, fall... only to be borne up by a gentle wind current. I imagined myself floating peacefully on the breeze like a flying squirrel, or even soaring like an eagle.

Well, that's not exactly what God had in mind. On a walk in the park a few weeks back, He gave me a different analogy. In my favorite part of the park, I recalled something I'd read in a devotional about being caught in the current of God's Spirit. At the time, I'd found great comfort in the idea of leaving my plans behind and floating down God's river to some beautiful destination.

I paused next to the dry stream bed which only a few weeks earlier had been swollen with rain. "God, I trust you," I prayed. "I want to relax and let your current take me wherever you want me to go." I thought about the agonizing anxiety that I'd been battling for weeks. A couple of tears trickled down my cheeks. "Even here, God. Even here."

Best Days of My Life

This past Friday evening, aboard a sunset dolphin cruise in Destin, Florida, I was feeling pretty melancholy because it was already the last night of our much-awaited beach vacation, a graduation celebration for Ethan and my niece Hillary. I'd been longing for a quiet week to rest, lie on the sugar sand, and maybe walk along the beach with my Beloved. But somehow, all six days had slipped through my fingers, and I was still waiting for that relaxation I needed so much.

My sister Amy, me, Allyson

Amy, our sister Emily, nephews Charlie and Sam

Charlie, nephew Jacob, brother-in-law Paul, Sam

Nieces Hillary and Savannah, friend Sarah

Charlie and our crazy captain

Just as I was trying to shrug off my dark mood so that I could enjoy the sunset and the sea spray, Summer of 69 started blaring from the very loud, crackly radio. For a moment, I enjoyed the nostalgia as I always do, but then I started thinking about the words: "Those were the best days of my life." And I thought, "What were the best days of my life?"

We'll Figure It Out

Tonight I was missing you all and wanting to write, but I thought, "I just don't have anything to say." It's not that there were no stories, just that I have no energy to tell them. But then I realized I just have to share at least one story....

Just yesterday--or maybe it was 13 years ago--I was lamenting the fact that my baby was now a little man. Here he was on his very first day of school.

In front of the school, he looked ready to tackle any challenge that came his way, with the help of that backpack that was almost as big as he was.

And then, at the Kindergarten breakfast with Mommy and Daddy, he could hardly contain his excitement even as I batted away tears. 

But when he was finally on his own, he wasn't at all sure he wanted to do this.

I can relate to that feeling. I get it a lot, mainly when it comes to parenting. I always think, "Wait, I'm not prepared for this at all!" But of course, I don't get a choice. I have to learn on the job, often through painful mistakes that bring the most valuable lessons.

To a Whisper

I'm sorry for my silence lately. Mostly I've been very busy, but recently I've been struggling with insecurities, a bit of self pity, and some hurts, both old and new. I've wanted to share this story for ages, but I haven't been in the mood for writing. Today has been a particularly rough day, and I still don't feel like writing, but I want to give it a shot anyway. 

One of the first lessons we learn at Celebrate Recovery is that we are not God; we are powerless to change our hurts, habits, and hangups without God's help. When I first came to CR, I had no problem with this step. I was going through a painful divorce, and I knew there was nothing I could do to change my situation. It was my powerlessness that brought me to CR and made me so open to surrendering my will to God.

As I've progressed in my recovery, though, I've sometimes forgotten that I am still powerless. I've felt so happy for so many months that recently I'd been feeling like I'd graduated. Maybe I even thought I didn't need God so much.

I started to think that I could change myself by my own efforts. My motives were good. I wanted to be like Jesus, and I saw that I was not. I saw my pride, my insecurities, my selfishness, and all the other imperfections, and I was very, very frustrated with myself. So I tried even harder to transform myself into Jesus's likeness, to make the fruit of the Spirit blossom through the power of my will. But I couldn't change myself. I couldn't grow my own patience, kindness, gentleness, and self control.

Because of my perfectionism, I couldn't enjoy the real growth that God had worked in my life. I couldn't enjoy being the woman He made me to be. Instead I focused on my faults, and I berated myself for not doing more, being more.

Around the start of February, I shared my frustrations with my brother Rick, over a veggie burger. I told him that I want to do something big, like move to Uganda and teach English at the God Cares School that I've never even seen, yet feel so drawn to. Not now, I assured him. I know my place is with my kids. But someday, maybe when I retire....

Rick replied that there are plenty of people here at home who need my love, and ways that I can serve in my own neighborhood right now.

I said yes, but confessed that I felt so self absorbed, so... not like Jesus. I felt I needed to be doing more.

Rick listened thoughtfully and then told me I needed to learn to be still. He told me how meditation has helped him to relax and let go of his troubles. He said that he quiets himself and doesn't actively try to not think. Instead, he starts with just an intention to connect with God. He couldn't explain exactly how, but he said that he often does feel a closeness with God. He feels love and peace in those times.

I thought a lot about his words on the way home. Yes, I did want to be still. But how? Immediately I started thinking about how I could still myself. And I was not still.

I believe it was the next day, or perhaps the day after that, when I found a sacred echo in this devotional from Streams in the Desert:

I do not believe we have even begun to understand the wonderful power there is in being still.... This is our problem regarding the Christian life: we want to do something to be Christians, instead of allowing Him to work in us....

Sit still, my daughter! Just sit calmly still!
What higher service could you for Him fill? 

Ah, yes! How had I forgotten this? I know very well that I can't bear fruit on my own: "No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me." (John 15: 4)

Over the next few weeks, I heard the same message over and over. Be still. Remember that He is God. I prayed that He would teach me how to be still.

I'd like to say that this revelation transformed me and that I now knew the secret to being still. But I don't think this is a lesson you can learn overnight.

I do believe God is answering my prayer, but not in the way I had hoped. He gives me opportunities to be still by allowing me to experience my helplessness, in things that have happened to me and things that I've brought on myself. Always, I find that I have no control, but that I do have a choice. I can't change my situation, but I can choose how I will respond.

Often, I respond very poorly. I flunk the test. I feel sorry for myself, and I wonder why I just can't get it. At my worst, I wonder if my faith is even real. I wonder if I've fooled myself to think I've ever grown at all.

I had one of those times this past weekend. I'd been struggling with fatigue for several weeks, and I felt worn down both physically and emotionally. I'd been hearing very upsetting stories in world news, and I was overwhelmed with the blackness. In that moment, life felt meaningless. What was the point of trying? What difference could I possibly make?

I also felt very alone. "Where are you, God?" I prayed. "I know you're here, but why can't I feel you? I just want someone to hug."

For the record, I have lots of people I could hug, with just a little effort. God has blessed me with several dear friends right in my own neighborhood. But I was stuck in a trap, feeling sorry for myself.

Although I tried to pray, my mood continued to deteriorate as the day faded into evening. Trying to divert myself, I decided to tackle a task I'd been putting off: cleaning my closet. The floor was littered with bins that CiCi had overturned, their contents strewn across most of the floor space. In retrospect, I realize that when I dropped to my knees to pick up that mess, I should have spent some time talking to God, there in my prayer closet.

Instead, I started picking up the cards, letters, and journals, sorting them into their designated bins.

Can you guess what happened next?

Yes, I opened some journals and stepped back in time. I read happy stories I'd completely forgotten, sweet little stories about Allyson and Ethan and Bill. I relived very painful struggles and wounds. As I writhed at the insecurities I had chronicled so vividly, not so different from the ones I was battling now, I wondered who was the real me.

There I sat, with fifteen years in my lap. How could they have slipped through my fingers so quickly? And how had I ended up here? Through my own choices, of course--the ones I'd just read about.

Even though I'd been perfectly happy just the day before, and for months before that, the future seemed very bleak just then. There was a storm inside me, and I was as helpless as the disciples on the Sea of Galilee. Only I wasn't sure that Jesus was in the boat with me.

I woke up feeling not much better than when I'd gone to sleep, but at least it was a Sunday, and I had the prospect of church to look forward to. I didn't have to wait that long for comfort, though. I started my quiet time with a fervent prayer that God would help me feel His presence.

On my way to the book of Luke, which I've been reading lately, my eyes fell on Psalm 107. I read about people who suffered, some at the hands of others and some by their own doing. In each example, the constant refrain was that they cried out to God, and He saved them with His unfailing love. "He brought them out of darkness and the deepest gloom." (v. 14). "He sent forth his word and healed them; he rescued them from the grave." (v. 20)

The best part was the story of the ones who went out to sea on ships, and a tempest lifted the waves high. "They mounted up to the heavens and went down to the depths; in their peril their courage melted away. They reeled and staggered like drunk men; they were at their wits' end. Then they cried out to the LORD in their trouble, and he brought them out of their distress. He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed." (vv. 25-29)

I read the verse about God stilling the storm and hushing the waves three times, aloud. And it was so. Just like that, the storm in me was stilled. I was still.

I realized then that sometimes the storm is too great, and I can't be still. The harder I try, the more I try to reason it out, the worse it gets. The only way I can be still is to give myself something else to think about, something pure and lovely and admirable. Only then can I feel the God of peace with me. Over and over, God's Word has done that for me. There is nothing more excellent or praiseworthy, nothing more powerful.

Honestly, I'm still struggling. I'm still exhausted. I'm still hurting. But I have hope. God will keep giving me these opportunities to be still. Sometimes I'll fail. But His mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23). I'll get another chance.

One of these days, I'll learn the lesson, but it won't be by my efforts. In the meantime, my Beloved loves me just the way I am.

[I have made an appointment with a doctor to look into the cause of my fatigue. I would appreciate your prayers.]

Why I Don't Want a Dog

A few have you have been asking me what happened next in the story with Zeus, and boy do I have a story for you--only I don't have time to tell it tonight.... But I'm going to tell you anyway. I'll try to be brief, but you know me, so no promises. 

On Tuesday 12/30, I swung by my friend Nicole's house after Celebrate Recovery to pick up Zeus; I'd agreed to pet-sit for a week while they visited her family. From her quick update, I learned that her kids absolutely adore Zeus, just like my kids. But the difference is that they brush him for hours and take him for walks every day, no matter how cold it is. I felt rather guilty to take him back to his sedentary life at our house, but he seemed happy to be here.

Zeus and Allyson, during his first stay

Ethan gladly welcomed Zeus back into his room that evening, and everyone was happy. Until the next afternoon.

At his original home, Zeus was used to being confined to the master bathroom when Elizabeth's family was gone. His bed and food were in there, and he never seemed to mind--even when he spent a whole week in there when they were on vacation. I'd put him outside twice a day, let him run around a bit, and give him a dutiful pat after I'd filled his bowl, and then he'd wag his tail and settle contentedly on his bed.

Remembering the horrible mess he'd made on Elizabeth's carpet the time I simultaneously poisoned him with cat food and also left the bathroom door slightly ajar, I figured it would be wise not to give Zeus the run of our house when we're gone. And since his bed and food are in Ethan's room, that seemed the logical place to lock him up, despite the carpet.

So before I went out clothes shopping on New Year's Eve, I told Ethan to pick up anything in his room that Zeus shouldn't get into and to confine him there if he went anywhere. "I will," he muttered, turning back to his video game. I glanced dubiously at the dirty dishes and fast food bags littering his floor and went on my way.

An hour or two later, my cell phone rang while I was agonizing between two cute shirts at Target.

"Mom? When are you coming home?" Ethan asked, his voice rather urgent.

"I'm at Target, so it might be a while. Why?"

"Zeus found my box of chocolates and ate a bunch of them and now-"

"He ate chocolates?! That could kill him! Why did you-"

"He's going to be fine. He puked it all up on my carpet. It's the biggest pile of puke I've ever seen from a human or an animal."

I pictured the giant Whitman's Sampler box that Ethan had brought home from his dad's house. It was literally over two feet wide, and had about 50 chocolates with a variety of fillings.

"How many did he eat? Were they milk chocolate or dark chocolate?"

"I don't know. I think it was still half full. He ate at least half of what was left. Some of them were dark chocolate, I guess."

"So ten? Twenty? We probably should take him to the vet."

"I don't know, Mom. But I'm telling you, he's fine. He got it all out and he's running around like nothing happened. But my room reeks. Please clean it up as soon as you can. I'm leaving to see The Hobbit with Bryce."

What's probably crossing your mind right now also crossed mine. Ethan was the one who left out a giant box of chocolates, so why should I be the one to clean up after Zeus while he went off to the movies? Well, you'd have to know Ethan. There was no way he was cleaning up that mess. To even suggest it would be laughable.

I sighed heavily. "I'll get checked out and come deal with it. I have no idea how to clean up a mess like that, but..."

"Great, Mom. See you later."

I phoned my own mom straightaway, but she didn't have any ideas for me. Tears gathered in my eyes as I pictured what waited for me, and imagined the smell. In the past, Bill had always dealt with stuff like this. Now, I was on my own.

On the way home, I prayed for God's mercy. "Please help me find a way to do this," I pleaded. "Please help me be strong." I thought back to the time God helped me down a whole gallon of Go-Lytely solution for my last colonoscopy prep. "I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength," I said.

Back at home, I filled my diffuser with water and added ten drops of Purify essential oil blend, which is purported to be the best oil for neutralizing odor. I cracked Ethan's door and set the diffuser on his messy floor, plugging it into the socket next to the door. Whew!

While the diffuser did its work, I consulted Google. The second link down in the search results had the most sensible solution, way easier than I could have hoped for:

1. Pour a ton of baking soda on the wet stain, covering it with at least an inch of powder. 
2. Pour on a few drops of fragrant essential oils. 
3. Cover with a towel and wait 24-48 hours. The baking soda will soak up the odor and absorb all the moisture. 
4. Scoop  the hunks of baking soda into the trash and vacuum up the remaining clumps of dry, crackly baking soda vomit. 

Genius! Thank you, Jesus!

After a quick trip to Wal-Mart Market to buy a pet stain solution and two large boxes of baking soda--they were out of the giant bags they usually keep in the pool section--I opened Ethan's door and surveyed the mess. Hoo-boy. The spot was roughly the size of the chocolate box, about two feet across. Indeed, I'd never seen such a pile of puke.

But I have to say, as far as vomit goes, this wasn't that smelly. It was very chocolaty, which was somehow revolting, but I've smelled far worse.

Still, I wrinkled my nose and my forehead too. "This is why I didn't want a dog," I whined to God.

Holding my breath, I edged over to ground zero and quickly dumped nearly two pounds of baking soda over the goopy brown mess.

That's a rolling desk chair in the pile, and a practice drum pad on the edge.

Next, I poured about 15 drops of eucalyptus oil over the powder and then draped an old yellow bath towel over the mess. Done!

Over the course of the evening, Zeus made four smaller piles around the house, thankfully all on the hard flooring surfaces. They were mostly water, but still very disgusting. I remembered again why I am so not a dog person.

By the next day, Zeus was fully recovered, and Ethan's room smelled faintly of citronella and eucalyptus oil.

The following evening, I couldn't put off the worst part of the job any longer. While Ethan and his friend Bryce looked on, I pried up hunks of solidified, brownish powder with the edge of an old dust pan. It wasn't nearly so easy as it had sounded on the Internet, probably because a lot of those chocolates had caramel fillings. Ugh.

"How did Zeus get into the chocolates, anyway?" I asked. "I thought you said you were going to put away everything he shouldn't get into."

"I did. I hid them, but he found them."

"Where did you hide them?" I asked, as I pried up a stubborn hunk of caramel-y baking soda.

"I put the box way back under my bed."

"Under your bed?" I repeated. "You really thought he wouldn't find them there? He's a dog. They can sniff out anything"

He shrugged.

"Well, now you know," I said with a sigh.

I vacuumed up the last crackly bits, revealing a huge brown stain. "I think you're going to need new carpet," I said. "But I don't know how quickly that will happen."

"Maybe you can buy me a rug to put over it," Ethan suggested.

After searching Google again, I poured all of my rubbing alcohol on the stain and then blotted up lots and lots of chocolate using all my old towels. Ick.

The carpet was still brown, and so were my towels.

I spent the next hour scrubbing that stain with Bissel Pet Spot Lifter foam, blotting it up, and scrubbing it again. Guess what? In the end, there was only the faintest hint of a circle. If you didn't know it was there, you wouldn't even notice it. But we're still going to get new carpet as soon as I get around to it.

Another Calamity
Over the course of that next week, I had more reasons to miss having a helpful husband with an iron stomach.

On Sunday the 4th, around bedtime, my garbage disposal quit... right after I had thrown down some week-old veggie lasagna. I flipped the switch several times and also pushed the red reset button on the bottom of the motor, all to no avail. All it did was hum.

There was about an inch of water in the sink with bits of broccoli and corn floating around aimlessly, so I knew I couldn't leave it for the next day.

I called Bill for advice. "I'll handle it," I quickly assured him, so that he wouldn't think I was hinting for him to come over. "Could you just give me some pointers?"

He told me to push the reset button.

"Did that."

"You'll need to put your hand down there and try to spin the blades. Probably something is blocking it. If you can get the blades to turn, it will probably come back on."

Ewww!

I hung up the phone and pulled out several handfuls of soggy lasagna noodles,  broccoli florets, and squishy mashed sweet potato.

With the drain mostly empty, I gingerly touched each of six blades, trying to block out a horrible scene in one of the Final Destination movies. All the blades seemed to turn freely.

Crossing my fingers, I turned on the water and flipped the switch again. Hmmmmm.

Now the sink had two inches of water. I got the toilet plunger (ewww!) out of the garage and plunged the drain. The water went down. I rinsed out the sink and went to bed.

First thing next morning, I turned on the disposal, and it was working fine! I had fixed it all by myself!

A few days later, I found the source of the problem when I reached into the disposal to retrieve a measuring spoon I'd dropped. It was one of those two-inch plastic scrapers from Pampered Chef, now well chewed on all four sides. "So that's where that was," I thought. It had been missing for weeks. It must have been lying flat under the blades, and then somehow it got lodged between the blades. Mystery solved.

...And Another Calamity
My last yucky task was the worst by far.

On Tuesday the 6th, we woke up to a mysterious puddle of water in Ethan's bathroom. When he alerted me to the problem, he insisted that he had not made the toilet overflow.

I sopped up the mess with some beach towels and went back to making Allyson breakfast. A few minutes later, I saw that more water had gathered between the toilet and the sink cabinet. On my hands and knees, I examined the toilet thoroughly but could find no sign of a leak.

I soaked up the water again and finally realized that the water was seeping up through the grout that bordered the sink cabinet. What on earth?

Just then, an ugly realization dawned on me. We'd had a cold snap the last few days, and the temperature had dipped below freezing. Probably there was a broken pipe under the floor. My stomach tightened as I wondered how a plumber would fix that. Would he have to bust up the tile and cut into the floor? Surely that would cost me thousands!

I laid more towels down and dropped both kids at school. I then spent an hour or more calling plumbers. I think there must have been some broken pipes in our area because the soonest anyone could come out was Thursday--two days later!

I cried, prayed, and cried some more. And then I sent a text to my sister and my brother. Rick's wife Diane quickly replied with the contact information of a really awesome plumber. Yay!

But even after I gave him Rick and Diane's name, he said he couldn't possibly come out that day. He was booked solid.

Tears filled my eyes again.

"I can give you the name of a colleague closer out your way, though," he said. "Mike's a great guy and very reasonable."

Thankfully, I was able to schedule an appointment for noon. Disaster averted.

But then I did something stupid. I was totally out of towels, and water was still seeping. I really needed some dry towels, but I didn't want to put dirty towels in my dryer. So I decided to run them through a short wash. The moment the idea occurred to me, the voice of reason cautioned me against it. I had a plumbing problem. I probably shouldn't be running any water.

But the problem's in the bathroom, I argued. The laundry room's on the other end of the house. And I really, really need more towels. 

So I threw in that load of towels, ignoring the rock in the pit of my stomach.

At last, I sat down at my desk to work while I waited for the plumber. About 15 minutes later, I heard the familiar sound of the washer emptying. Right on the tail of that sound came an unfamiliar, peculiar sound, issuing from my bathroom, right next to me.

I cautiously stepped in to investigate. The bubbling was coming from my toilet, whose water looked like it was at a slow boil. What on earth?

All three drains in my bathroom were making bubbling sounds. I walked to the tub, afraid to look. Ugh, there was a small puddle of brown water around the drain.

But that was nothing next to what I found in my shower: about an inch of raw sewage! Yes, there was POOP in my shower. I covered my mouth and ran out of there, my blood running cold.

At that point, I hurried to Bill's house to borrow a shop vac, but I couldn't bring myself to use it. Sucking up that... crap... wouldn't be so bad, but then what would I do with it? I was pretty sure you're not supposed to pour sewage on the lawn.

For the second time in a week, I plugged in my diffuser with some Purify blend.

The good news of the day is that Mike was able to find the problem almost immediately, and he did not have to dig as he had initially feared. There's an outlet pipe right under my shower, and he was able to snake the pipes through there. Thirty minutes later, the clog was clear, and all the drains were emptying freely. And the bill? Only $110!! Who ever heard of a $110 plumbing bill?

Thank you, Jesus! And thank you, Mike. Those of you who are local, contact me if you want the name of an honest, reasonable plumber.

After Mike left, my joy and relief deflated. Now it was time to tackle something even worse that chocolate caramel dog puke. I headed to Wal-Mart Market for some Clorox bleach spray, some Comet scouring powder, and a really good pair of latex gloves.

And then I put on my big-girl panties, thanked God that I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength, and cleaned up that mess. I cleaned the tub and the shower three times, mopped both bathroom floors twice, and called it a day. That evening, I had Ethan clean his own bathtub, which had been stopped up but did not have sewage in it.

I hope I never have another week like that one, but it's good to know I really can do all things through Christ.

About Zeus
Okay, so you're wondering whether we're keeping Zeus, aren't you? Short answer: I'm not sure. Nicole says she thinks she wants him, but her son was injured last week and now needs surgery. She said once he's recovered from his surgery, I can bring him over. [Pray for him, please. His name is Micah.]

Zeus has been with us for two weeks now. Aside from the chocolate incident, which wasn't his fault, he's been such a good boy. I have lots of stories about him and the cats, but I'll have to save them for another day. Stay tuned.