If anyone reading this knew my dad, you may find it ironic to note that I do not like birds. They're not creepy really, except for those massive flocks that move like a black cloud with one mind; I just don't want them eating my vegetation, pooping on my stuff, or making noise. I don't buy birdseed because it would attract birds, and I can't see why I'd want to do that.

It was with this mindset that Saturday evening my son found a small mourning dove with a broken wing and brought it home to take care of. (side note: just because I don't like birds does not mean I can't identify them. Thanks, Dad.) Not knowing what to do for the bird or for my compassionate children who wanted to see the bird be alright, I helped them gently put it in our courtyard with water and cracker crumbs. After it survived the weekend, I bought a 5 lb. bag of birdseed, the smallest I could find. We have been faithful to check on the little guy, and my daughter prays for God to heal it so the bird "can fly away over the wall all by itself." It's a sweet life lesson for them, and for me as well as I am learning to care for one of God's creatures.

And then there was an incident today. The two year old opened the door to the courtyard so he could see the "buddie and the teedle" (birdie and turtle) but our gigantic dog rushed out and snatched the bird before I could stop it. She brought it inside shaking it like her rope, and I screamed. She slithered off to her crate, and I rushed to the aid of the pitiful, contorted bird in my floor. Not knowing what else to do, I got a shoe box from the closet (see, having a shoe obsession is helpful!) to use as a makeshift stretcher or coffin, whichever. The bird appeared to be barely clinging to life, and I thought it would be much easier for me to stomach disposing of it later if it were already boxed up. As soon as I got it in the box and back in the courtyard, I had to leave to pick up my daughter at school. On the way home I explained to her what had happened, and when she went to check if I had told the truth, she found the bird sitting upright, a vast improvement over his earlier state. I tried to reposition the distorted wing, and we configured the lid of the box to provide shade and still be open on top. Then my girl began to pray for the bird. "Dear God," then she made a raising motion with her hand and told me, "take the lid off so I can see what I'm praying for." Then she sweetly asked the Father to heal each injured body part.

Three hours later, we broke the news to my oldest on the way home from school, and all three rushed the courtyard to see if the bird was alive. He was, and in fact, he had hopped out of the box! I am amazed even now that the thing survived the rottweiler's grip, and I never expected to see it moving again after the shocking living room floor rescue.

God is stirred by the prayers of the faithful, especially little children who have yet to develop hearts and minds of doubt.

In the car tonight, my daughter started to tell me something, "when the bird flies away," but I stopped her to interject that the bird couldn't fly. Irritated by my helpfulness, she snipped, "quit interrupting! WHEN the bird flies away, we will have lots and lots of birdseed left over to feed more and more birds. We can help all of them!" Oh great, do you see what happens when you do nice things?!

when I grow up I want to be young again

Yesterday I had to buy new wrinkle cream because the old one I had was making me break out. That's not even close to what I had in mind for younger looking skin!

I do not like being in my thirties. I don't know why, because if I weren't, it would mean I'm dead and not here to raise my babies. However, there is nothing cool about being out of high school longer than the teens I teach have been alive! Not cool at all. Sometimes when I've cleaned up after the kids and dog and caught a glimpse of my frazzled reflection in passing, I longingly think back to a simpler time when I was single and lived alone. Do you know how many people you have to clean up after when you live alone? ONE, and even that's optional.

But thinking about what life used to be like is a bad idea because you never see it clearly for what it really was. For instance, child birth. That is a hell like I can't even explain, but once a mom holds her baby, she forgets all about the bad stuff and eventually may even want to have more babies-knowing what it takes to get them here. She just blurs over the bad parts.

I also do that when I crave oranges. I love everything about oranges, their smell, texture and flavor. I even love that you have to peel them because there is pleasure in seeing how few pieces I can peel it in. But sadly, I am quite allergic to oranges, and they do bad things to my body. Peeling one for my kids burns my hands, and eating them burns my throat and leads to sinus infections. And yet, they continue to entice me. When I see and smell an orange, I just WANT it!

Then yesterday I read a scripture that pierced straight to my heart because it addresses all of my longings. Psalm 103:1-5 is an unbelievable comfort to me right now. It tell me that God redeems my life from the pit, which is exactly where I was living in my single days in that quiet apartment. In truth, while I look back and think about how great it was, at the time, I was rebelling against God's will for me, and I was angry with Him. Now though, He "crowns [me] with love and compassion." Psalm 103 also tells me that God "satisfies [my] desires with good things" so I don't have to long for things that will hurt me or leave me drained, like oranges do. Unfortunately, oranges aren't the only unhealthy desires I invite into my life. Praise God that You love me enough to keep pouring on the "good things!" Finally, vs. 5 amazes me with its assurance that through "good things" my "youth is renewed." I'm hoping that means I can stop buying wrinkle cream because my face is about to look 24 again! Maybe not, but I am claiming that renewal today.

Investment Returns and Heart Surgery

Don't worry, I am not about to give you financial advice. First off, I was only marginally successful in that math class with all the % rates. I'm just glad I know what APR means, but if I had to calculate it, I'd be in trouble. Second, the only time I invested in the stock market, I realized about a month in that I wouldn't make rent without that money, so let's just say my portfolio is...limited.

I do however know a little about time and spiritual investing, mainly because I have also been unwise in those areas of investment. I also know a little (very little) about heart surgery because, well, I'm a nerd, and that stuff interests me.

Christian radio stations have been updating about the newborn son of Sanctus Real's lead singer this week as he endured a 4 hour open heart surgery and almost died yesterday. It has really effected me and convicted me of how I take this life for granted.

I invest my time and my spiritual heart in so many different things that I've lost count. Reading novels, not cleaning my house, and shopping are three of my current faves. As long as I spread myself around, I don't have to invest too much into one area, and I protect myself against any hurt that may come from one direction. Because if I give myself completely to a relationship or a project and they fail, it feels much worse than if I just got my feet wet and they fail. Yet, my efforts at diversification have not given me the returns I had hoped for. I don't feel well-rounded and fulfilled; instead, I feel depleted, broken. My heart wasn't constructed to work in pieces, and just as my blood-pumping heart must be whole to keep me alive, my spiritual heart must be wisely invested in one thing, the one true Thing, in order to maximize its yield. If only I had given all of my heart over to God in the first place, by now the rate of return would be incalculable. Now I feel like I am simultaneously scrambling to gather all the broken pieces of my heart in one location and doling them back out in other wrong places. I know I said I don't get that kind of math, but this can't be good for my eternal portfolio!

So I'm trying to reset. I'm gathering the pieces of my heart and giving them the the Lord Almighty to stitch together perfectly. And I'm certain when I do, everything else will yield accordingly.

For the past several weeks, my youngest has been fixated on watching the same movie over and over. If you read my facebook statuses, you know what it is, and if not, I will start at the beginning of the movie and recite lines until you guess it. Just kidding. It's Monsters Inc. Or to my two year old, "Monkers Inc." It getting really old. And it's not like all we do it sit around watching movies, but if we're in the house, he is either begging watch it or sweet talking someone into turning on the DVD player for him.

I realized this afternoon that he's not alone in his old man rut. My oldest is getting painfully predictable at asking me the same question at least 20 times a day...to go see if the neighbor boy can play. If I say no, then I get to hear it asked in more creative ways. And my daughter, well you can bet that if I choose her outfit or fix her hair, I will be a complete idiot and do it all wrong. I don't expect that one to change much over the next decade (and a half!) The dog's not even mixing it up anymore! At least they're all consistent, right?

There are some perks to consistency. The Bible says says that Jesus is the same now as he has always been and will ever be. That's my paraphrase of Heb. 13:8 It's good to know that my God of the Bible who healed and loved broken people is the same God of 2010, healing and loving people. It gives me peace as I'm cleaning the carpet and folding the laundry just like I do alllllll the time that He is watching over me and taking care of me just like he does all the time. I wonder if it ever gets old for Him like it does for me? I don't know, if taking care of me is to God what Monsters Inc is to my kid, then I have nothing to worry about!

Open Season on Smoke Alarms

First of all, who develops the noise a smoke detector makes? Do scientists study the sounds that most make a human want to run out of the house at night? If so, they should bag the high-pitched beeping and make an alarm that sounds like a child throwing up. Try to sleep through that. Many a dad has pretended to, but we're on to you. So here is my PSA on smoke detector safety:

1. A smoke detector will still chirp even after you dismantle it and take out the battery.

I thought that was just a sitcom bit on Friends, but we lived that Phoebe moment last night. Try it if you don't believe me, but I suggest you choose an optimal time of day when you can give the situation proper attention.

2. Smoke detectors are much like newborns, they have no regard for time of night when they"
[checking them regularly in the light of day. You won't be able to sleep through it no matter how hard you try. But you will still try because the alternative is scrounging for a battery, and if you come up empty handed, you have to find the right drawer to muffle the sound of the chirp until the battery stores open in the morning.

Thankfully, we found a new 9V battery and were able to silence the thing. I am also proud to report that I did not fall off the stool I managed to climb in the middle of the night with my eyes still mostly closed.

The reason we just happened to have a battery on hand? A few weeks ago we had a chirper outside one of the kid's rooms right at bedtime, and we had to make a special trip to the store to silence it. Good thing I bought a two pack!

3. The annoying mechanism that signifies the low battery is separate from the actual alarm. This we also learned at 3:30 this morning when my honey hit the test button to be sure the battery was in correctly. It emitted a sound only audible to small rodents. So later this morning (after strong coffee and daylight) I tested all 6 of our smoke detectors and discovered that 3 of them beep at the level of a digital watch alarm. So now I get to replace them and spend a bit more time balanced precariously on a stool installing the new ones. And if we wake up to another chirper tonight, it may just be time to pack up and move.

Just because you don't go to Hell for wearing ugly shoes, it doesn't mean you should!

Last week my honey had to go to New York for business, so I tagged along. After all, I had to go to visit the great shoe Mecca. It’s part of my 2^nd religion. (the first being Christianity, and the second being staunch Shoeology) Which reminds me, I bought a decent looking pair of low heel sandals to wear walking in Manhattan because (per a previous blog entry) I read New Yorkers don’t wear flip flops or sneakers. Incidentally, either I never saw a real New Yorker-entirely possible-or they really do wear the same type of shoes as me! So back to the sandals, they’re slightly more functional than attractive, and after the sitter made fun of my granny shoes, they got left behind. After all, being a born-again Shoeologist, I couldn’t risk going to hell for wearing ugly shoes, could I?

Vanity has a price though, and I paid mine when I decided to wear lovely kitten heel strappy sandals to walk in Manhattan, my feet developed the largest blisters I’ve ever seen on about 6 places. At this point, I was already walked too far from the hotel to think about going back for my flip flops, so I admitted defeat in Macy’s and bought a 2^nd pair of slightly uncute, practical shoes. Then I hid behind a stack of comforters in the bedding section, plastered my injured feet in band-aids and donned granny shoes #2. The damage had been done, however, and I had to cover my feet in moleskin patches and wear good ole sock and tennies after that.

Warning: the adhesive on moleskin will roll, stick to your shoes, and rip the thin, delicate skin right off your blisters. Then the moisture from popped blister will seep, further removing the moleskin and subjecting blistered foot to full-on fiery pain.

It was in this pitiful state that I found myself (strategically placed myself to be more honest) in a situation where Christian Louboutins and Jimmy Choos were surrounding me, begging to be tried on. If you find yourself unfamiliar with either of these names, you are clearly not a Shoeologist, and if you haven’t lost interest in reading by now, you may as well Google them. I will save you the embarrassing details now, but refer to previous paragraph for a clear mental image of my feet.

I found a lovely, no, magnificent pair of heels that were dying to see Texas, and being the compassionate sole, I mean soul that I am, I affectionately made the purchase. Sadly, I was unable to force my injured feet into them when we went to a Broadway show, and I wound up wearing my little black dress with $10 Target Flippies. I attempted to wear some sexy red strappy heels (placed carefully over the bandages) at first, and toted the flip flops in my huge mama purse just in case, but I promptly made the switch when the pain became too much to bear. My evening clutch remained untouched in my suitcase along with the perfect shoes that Cinderella’s glass slipper couldn’t even touch! I soon as the swelling goes down though, I plan to live in my souvenir shoes...until I save enough money to buy them some strappy friends. It's not vanity if it's true love.

ps. I really love my Lord Jesus and my dear family more than lovely shoes for the record. But don't tell my shoes that.

how I spent my summer vacation

In the pool, in the car, and in planes. I guess technically that was only a fraction of my summer, but that’s it in a nutshell, and my beloved always asks me for the short version.

I spent today flying back from New York, and it wasn't one of my better plane trips. There were no crashes, and I didn't get sick, so it could have been much worse, but all I could think of while I was sitting in the flying day care- where there were babies as far as the eye can see. Actually, as far as the ear can hear- was how my beloved has gotten bumped to first class a number of times, and it has yet to happen to me. I left Manhattan extra early this morning to account for traffic and lines at the airport. There were neither lines nor traffic, so I had 2 hours to kill in the airport before boarding. We made up for my easy arrival on tarmac where we waited in line for 25 minutes for our turn on the runway. About 1 minute into the wait, the newborn in the seat next to me began wailing. When he finally gave it up about an hour later, the infant a few rows ahead picked up the slack. I want to know who handed out the sign up sheet for the babies to pick a time slot because it was constant crying in even rotations. I usually feel bad for the parents, but I also usually have headphones to minimize my discomfort, and this time I had accidentally packed them in my checked bag. I had also given up my isle seat to the couple beside me with the infant and long-legged father, and going to the bathroom now seemed an impossible feat. My full bladder made me less sympathetic to the wailers' parents.

Eventually, I did have to go to the bathroom, and it was like a 4-member Olympic team scrambling to beat the drink cart. We all had to hobble out of the row (baby too), hobble back in as the flight attendants brought the cart by, and play musical chairs in order to get back out again. When I came back to my seat, the mother was changing a diaper in it.

Then there was the child behind me who got airsick. Oh yes. The smell of vomit infected my nostrils at the exact moment the attendants began handing out microwaved cheeseburgers. I won't even describe that delectable treat. Finally we landed, and I sprinted through George Bush Intl in order to catch my connecting flight.

The second flight was less eventful, but there was a boy about 10 in front of me laying across 2 seats listening to his ipod without headphones. High pitched Indian music whined the same rhythm for an hour and a half. This kid also ordered coffee from the flight attendant with lots of sugar. Apparently the sugar/caffeine ratio made the kid deaf because the music continued to get louder as the flight progressed. I thought the guy next to me was going to beat the kid, and if we had landed 5 minutes later, I might have done it myself. I've never been so glad to run to my car full of my own screaming, smelly kids in all my life. It's good to be home.