on June

We moved back into Mexico, back into the 'hood back at the end of May, all sweet, no bitter. I missed this place, these people, in those few months away, missed it all mightily. Of course, memories show themselves nostalgic when you go away from a place. I confess, I forgot about those daily things that I can be so tempted to be annoyed by, like drainage projects that last for years and the roads that these projects destroy and the detours that these projects dictate... (and there I am, confessing how easily I am distracted).

I come back to Reynosa and to ministry and to this life with fresh eyes and a ready spirit. Not much can beat those first surprise greetings by my young friends, hugs around my legs right in the middle of the street, "Kreeeeeeeeeees-teeeeeeeeeeee...." The high-pitched and high-volume voices sing familiar but brand new after time away. The everyday tasks that life in team require don't weigh too heavy. The sweat runs into my eyes many a day while I reacclimate to borderland sun and humidity and for a short time, I just keep blinking. I have to stop for horses in the street one evening on my way home, and just laugh as they mosey along.

One ordinary day turns special when I get to linger over lunch with decades-old friends, all together for one rare afternoon. I have the privilege of playing auntie to my teammates' kids. I sit on the shore with another dear one and watch the waves roll in and out and chase down a fresh fish dinner at the end of the day. I use any excuse, long bridge lines, afternoons too hot to cook, to find nieves and tacos. I sit on a bench in dusty early evening and watch the neighborhood kids play ball. 

All that so very true and real and good, and yet, I can not ignore other realities. The bridge I cross multiple times a week now has serpentine wire strung across multiple lanes. The waits can be painfully long and alter how we receive visitors, even family, but those inconveniences seem very small in comparison to the sufferings of others very nearby. I spend time with girls from an orphanage, separated from their parents for reasons I don't know and they can't understand. I learn of changes in the lives our neighborhood youth and I groan out loud and want to cry out. I cry with a volunteer overwhelmed by the needs she heard and saw in others that day. Day by day I face my own issues and seek His wisdom and grace. I find a new to me hymn and put it on repeat. 

What patience would wait as we constantly roam

What Father so tender is calling us home

He welcomes the weakest, the vilest, the poor

Our sins they are many, His mercy is more

("His Mercy Is More," by Matt Papa and Matt Boswell)

I'm thankful to be back.

246/365

"Greetings from Reynosa. I am doing administrative work today and notice that this email address..."
And such started many notes on this day, as I try to reconcile and consolidate several address lists for our missions giving and communications. Through the wonder of technology, we can see who opens our mail, and who doesn't. This sort of business can be a cumbersome work for a natural introvert, an official Enneagram 9, who relies on the goodness and giving of others for the majority of our income. I mean, maybe you really don't want to read our updates and that's totally ok. I understand, really I do. Maybe you just changed your email and we didn't know. Or maybe you have multiple email addresses and our mail isn't going to one you read most often. Or maybe...

I am left believing that this new world of social media and instant communication can prove itself both a blessing and a curse. Surely missionaries in not so many years past wished, "If only I could send out one letter to everyone...," "If only I could see who was really receiving our mail..." Now we can. And not only that! I adore instant access to photos of faraway friends and family whom I would otherwise rarely see at all. The images and updates close the distance. Sometimes I forget how long it's been since I've had an actual conversation with that person because I often "see" them, or at least, their posts and their photos. But then I'll get a real letter, a newsy epistle written exclusively for my eyes, that shares a bit of a dear one's heart, and I remember. Even the best missive cannot substitute for sitting together, face to face.

I live on the edge of two frontiers and crossing from one country to another can be a daily exercise, simple and normal. Yet, sometimes an ordinary update will remind me that I am indeed so far away. Kids who were everyday playmates of my own get married and have their own kids and celebrations go on with out us, as they should. I accidentally discover that I was "unfriended" by someone and I consider why that stings. I often struggle to make small talk with friends stateside. Just a few miles apart, and yet everyday life can look so different from my side of the 'hood. Jesus' command to "follow me" demands and requires so very much more than what we know from being a follower on social media these days.

Only minutes after sending out the first inquiry, I receive a response, "Your newsletters would be welcomed," the kind folks write.  And then another similar response quickly follows. Certainly, I savor the nearly instant gratification, at least for a moment. Which is good, because those two replies would be it. And so, it's back to "Greetings from Reynosa..."

63/365

The good news is that finally, finally, I won a round of lotería. The bad news is that we were playing at the good-bye party for my buddy and office mate so I found my excitement a bit tempered.
And then my husband accidentally gave away my prize.
Alas. Some days are like that.

Does anyone else remember days as good news, bad news? I often wonder, am I the only one who perpetually wrestles with life's opposites? The only one who sees the sides and can't exactly be completely for one or the other? Does anyone else contend with those inner arguments while living very much in the out-there-right-now?

And then I found this essay, and realized, maybe others think on these sorts of ideas, too. Maybe I'm not the only one quite sure she doesn't have all the answers. Loree Ferguson Wilbert writes:

My desires must be for something higher, God himself and his kingdom.  

This is why I glad to not be a registered anything or pledge allegiance to anything on this earth. My allegiance is to God, to his order of things, and my optimism is rooted in the coming kingdom, not in the fruition of all my "disordered loves." The world is in disarray: children slaughtered in schools by people with guns made for slaughtering, mental gymnastics abound by barely clad women talking about objectification, wars and rumors of wars, and everyone thinks they're the real optimist, the ones with the real solutions. But God's kingdom gives us permission to grieve at what is while hoping for what is to come at the same time—to be true eternal optimists.  

It might be on the picket lines that our points are made, but it's at the tables where progress is made. It's there where we can be honest about what is terribly, terribly wrong, but also true about what is beautifully, achingly good. 

Tonight at the table we didn't make much progress. But we ate really well and we laughed a lot and we were together, minus a couple, for the last time for a while. And all of that was indeed "achingly good." I want to keep erring on the side of "true eternal optimist."

15/365

Maybe that’s why in the list of heart, soul, mind, strength, in every time that it occurs in the Gospels, heart is first. Because the heart is not an organ of performance; it’s an organ of preference. The heart prefers, and then we do stuff in accord with our preferences. The first commandment is loving with all your preference. Prefer him above everything. Let him be your gold, your silver, your everything, and it’ll change all your doings.
- John Piper, "The Heart of Love is Delighting, Not Doing," Desiring God blog.

The alarm goes off early. It all seemed so reasonable when I suggested the plan for the day the previous night. But the dark and cool of a January morning make early seem even earlier. Thankful for a hot shower, I dress quickly and settle at my desk with my mug and my Bible, my notebook and my pen. I repeat the keystrokes for the week's memory verse, over and over and they start to stick.

We load up and head out, the light of dawn barely peeking over the horizon behind us. A stop for gas. A stop for a taco. A stop for coffee. I argue one stop would have worked just as well. I think about the day, about the week, about the rest of the month. I play ump-jillion games of solitaire to avoid paying attention to traffic while my guy drives alongside the rest of the morning commuters. 

I'm back at my other desk and making a list of To Do's in relatively short order. Administrative work and plans for teaching, overdue correspondence, and the next day's assignments fill my notecard. One by one, I cross them out, only occasionally distracted by Facebook, by playlists. "Like a boss," I congratulate myself as I strike through another item. I head across the street for the afternoon reading and outreach. I play with kids. I stack and restack blocks and keep big kids from knocking down fragile towers and coordinate demolition countdowns. I sit with a little one coloring at a table full of bigs and encourage her to finish her page, finding whatever crayon she asks for next. It's a day of doing.

In a 1967 speech to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, Martin Luther King Junior said, "As for me, I have also decided to stick with love for I know that love is ultimately the only answer to the mankind's problems." Just a few moments later in the same speech, King clarified, "and I'm not talking about emotional bosh when I talk about love." He certainly wasn't referring to the simple feel-good "love" of Valentine candy hearts. King reminded the crowd of the requirements of 1 Corinthians 13, of the challenge of doing all things with love, and of the potential to become egotistical and self-righteous even in the midst of doing good things.

Ah... right. It's not about the To Do list. It's about how I do it. It's about who is glorified in the doing. I pray that even on days that are full of doing, my heart will always delight the very most in Him who first loved us.

356/365

(DPP22- what?! TWO light shows in ONE season?!)

"You are NEVER going to guess what I did this morning," I announced to my family at lunch.

"Got a tattoo."
No. I have nothing against tattoos on other people, but have no desire to ink myself.

"Got a massage."
No. I have never had a massage. Well, I did have a touch massage last year, given by a kind lady visiting the mission, but it didn't really seem like much to me. I came close getting a massage at the beach last summer, but I'm not ready yet...

"Got another piercing."
No. Although that is not a bad guess because the last and only "another piercing" I received was a second hole on my left ear about 25 years ago, and I was with the same friend...

They got close when they guessed "paintball," but not quite.

"I went to the shooting range."

"YOU shot a gun?!"
"Mom is packing heat?!"
"Whoa." (followed by some laughing as they considered it all...)

It sounds a bit ridiculous to me, too.
Sort of like tattoos, I have nothing against reasonable people going to the range to shoot guns, but I have not had any desire to do it myself.
But, one of my most dear friends in the world is shooting these days. And the range was right up the street from the hotel where I was staying.
So, on a Friday morning just before Christmas, I visited the shooting range.

I'd like to throw around the names of the firearms I shot, all 9mm, but I don't really remember. I got registered and the really professional young lady behind the counter gave me some safety instruction and got my ear protection (I was already wearing my glasses) and then, I'm stepping into the range.
It was loud.
I realized instantly, I know what gunfire sounds like. And when you know the sound of shots, not from hunting, not from hypothetical-at-the-range-firing, but from real life, maybe it changes your perspective about guns.

I did ok at the range. Not great, but ok. I got better as we went along. We shot at a paper outline of a guy, and if had been real life, I probably would have scared him, maybe wounded him.
But here's what I realized- I am not confident that I could ever shoot to kill.
I'm not saying that other people shouldn't. I, too, hear stories about mass shooters and am grateful when someone takes them down and saves other lives in doing so.
But I don't think that I'm the girl cut out for concealed carry. Or any carry. I have always figured that the problem with having a firearm is that I might try to use it. My morning at the range reminded me, for plenty of reasons, I'm not the girl to use it.

(And for the record- none of this should be considered a comment on gun rights or gun control or any of that. It's just a few thoughts about myself after I spent a morning at the range.)

324/365

I'm fairly certain that my morning commute beats yours.

First of all, I walk to the office. I don't have to get into a car. No need to check the gas tank on the way or wonder if that warning light was on the last time I drove. I don't have to negotiate traffic or crazy drivers or anticipate what's ahead. Well, sure, I look out for crazy drivers when I cross the street, and sometimes a garbage cart passes me by, but that's nearly always with a wave and a "Buenos dias!"

As I leave my house and lock my door, I stop to listen to the sounds coming from the deaf school next door. "Sounds from the deaf school?" Those who haven't spent time around deaf kids may not realize that many are quite verbal. They laugh, sometimes loudly because they have no sense of just how loud they are. They let out exclamatory noises of approval and disdain. They clap their hands. The deaf are very sensitive to movement around them, so nearly always I catch the eye of someone and exchange a good morning wave and smile.

I walk down the passageway to the Bodega, the workshops for the Isaiah 55 vocational ministries. I often smell the fresh cut wood before I am at the shop, by far the best scent going in this neighborhood! In this season, walking through the Bodega is something akin to passing by Santa's workshop. Our students and neighborhood workers form the crew of elves that creates Forever Gingerbread houses. These little wooden houses are reusable gingerbread houses, created to be decorated and then cleaned and then decorated again. The houses are sold at home parties and craft sales and holiday markets in the United States with sales benefiting the Isaiah 55 vocational programs. I wave at the workers and stop to exchange a good morning hug with Norma, our lead worker.

My longest traffic stop comes in pausing to pet our dogs. There's Neighbor Dog, Vecina, the gentle Pit Bull mix with dark soulful eyes who usually drops to the ground so I can rub her belly. Puppy pushes his way into the mix. Puppy is a tall Beagle-something who makes up for clumsy with enthusiasm. Puppy is yet a puppy and still needs instructional reminders not to gnaw your arm or jump up to lick your face. The black lab female mix, Black Dog (oh, I know, we are so creative in names...) is a whiner. It's been 9 months and she hasn't won me over yet, but I suppose there is still time.

Once out the gate, I turn left. Usually, I share crossing the always dusty and sometimes muddy street with the neighbor's chickens. There's always another few dogs in the street along the way. Sometimes other folks also walk down the street, also making their way to work, and we swap good morning pleasantries. Less than a minute down the road, there's nearly always Miguel at the gate. And there's nearly always the same exchange-
"Buenos dias. Como estas?" (Good morning. How are you?)
"Estoy aquí. Va a llover hoy." (I'm here. It's going to rain today.)
And that is whether there is a cloud in the sky or not.

Makes me smile every single time.

319/365

I don't remember not suffering from allergies. "She'll probably outgrow it," the docs would say. Forty-something years later, I'm still waiting. I first had allergy testing done when I was in 6th grade- my back a checkerboard of pin scratches, all welts and itch. Yes, I know you are there, you dust, you pollen, you grass, you mold, you weeds, you trees, you cats... I remember that the allergist suggested to my parents that moving to a new state might be a choice. That wasn't an option.

I took shots through high school, initially twice a week, then eventually once a week, but never less than every two weeks. I'd receive one injection in each arm, wait for the 20 minutes for a check, and then out to the curb with my book to wait for my mom to return. And then I sort of just gave up. I went to college and then I married and started moving and who wants to keep up with new allergists? (I can still hear Harold telling me, "Dr. Zig! Call Dr. Zig!) Over the counter meds improved greatly and it's easy to get used to normal, even when normal means a lot of Kleenex in your life. (Always, always, kleenex! Never scented, never lotion, never Puffs!)

But every once in a while, the allergies get bad and the sinuses get infected and, well, that's not so great. For the last couple of weeks, I snuffed my way through daily life, until I realized that, man, this is wearing me out. I had that tap-your-sinuses-under-your-eyes kind of feeling. Actually, I did try tapping my sinuses to relieve the pressure. It didn't work.

Next stop, Pho #1 (and hey- isn't "#1" a hopeful name for a restaurant, an assumption that there will be more Pho to come?) because what could be better for a sinus infection than pho? Are you familiar with pho? Basically, pho is Vietnamese noodle soup. It is medicinal, I am sure, good for the body, good for the soul. Broth soup in any culture ranks as "comfort food" for me- chicken noodle or caldo de res or Italian wedding soup... But, pho seems Especially Good for sinuses because you can make it hot, spicy hot, that is. Pho has jalapeños and you can add Sriracha, all with the end goal of draining those sinus passages...

Perhaps I set my expectations a bit too high, hoping for immediate relief. Alas. None came, although the pho itself did not disappoint. That night I continued to be a Mouth Breather. In fact, I think I woke myself up snoring. Thankfully my husband and I weren't in the same place that evening...

I considered a visit to the clinic, and I considered that perhaps this one would not resolve itself. So I did what any reasonable person does- I went to the Internet (I know my doctor friends are cringing. So sorry!). I considered "Sinusitis or Allergies?" (thanks WebMD). I researched "10 Natural Remedies for Sinus Infection" (thanks everydayhealth.com). And I ran into one of my favorite advisors at the store and solicited a consult (thanks Kate!).

(Now, I know that at this point many of you are shouting at me, "Neti Pot!! Try the Neti Pot!!" Let me tell you- NO! I just cannot, will not, do the Neti Pot. It is akin to Waterboarding in my book- physical and psychological torture, both. The Neti Pot is NOT an option.)

But, I did decide to give a few squirts of saline a try, a couple times a day. And for 3 full days, that seemed futile, too. I had pretty much determined that the next stop was a prescription for Zithromax (thanks goodRX.com). And then, I thought, I need to blow my nose.

Without going into the gory details on color (yes, there may have been colors) or consistency (yes, there may have been several grades of viscosity) (yes- let's all utter a collective groan of disgust!), I'll just say, I think the saline worked. It wasn't pretty. But after a few minutes of blowing, I was healed.

I gave thanks! I could breathe! And I've been clear ever since!
Let's celebrate with caldo!

287/365

Confession: I stopped regularly making my kids breakfast and lunch many moons ago. I could give explanations why, but suffice it to say, yes, they always have food. But those first two meals at our house... well, usually you are on your own. But sometimes, usually when you least expect it (or if we have a house guest), I jump to the task. And then I do it cheerfully- because I don't do it often...

But this isn't really a tale about breakfast. Rather it's a story of foolishness and the kind man who loves me anyway. To make breakfast on this day, I need to go to the store and gather provision before the rest of the house was awake. Around 7:30 I sneak out and head to our Morgan HEB. (note: Our Morgan HEB plays 80's tunes. That, if nothing else, is sufficient reason to shop there.) Surprisingly, this Saturday dawn breaks gray and foggy, and even though there aren't many of us on the road, I decide lights might be a good idea.

I do my shopping. I'm pretty sure I sing along, out loud but hopefully not too loud, to "Karma karma karma chameleon." (It comes and goes. It comes and goes.) I wisely refrain from the Buy 5 Candy Bars Get 5 Candy Bars Free deal at the checkout counter, pay for my goods, roll out the cart out and approach my car. I notice, the back lights are glowing red. Not Good. Red back lights mean that, sigh, I did it again. We love our little white CRV. It has 200,000 really good miles on it and is still going strong. But its pitfall? It doesn't have a little dingy reminder warning bell when you leave the lights on. Who remembers that they turn their lights on in the fog? I mean, technically it's light outside... And not only that, but our little white CRV has a very short lasting battery. I remember the Sears Die Hard battery commercials of days old, "We are parked here at International Falls, Minnesota on a frozen lake through January, through February, through March, and the Die-Hard STARTS!" Our CRV battery simply would not compete. It would probably fall through the thawing ice in April, not able to start. Sure enough, this time too. No matter my coaxing, my turning off the radio, my tender pats on the dashboard, the car will not start. I call my dear guy, and after only one, "Kristy. You left the lights on again?" he comes to rescue me.
(note: Yes, I know that it's not good for the battery life to run it down. Yes, I know that I really need to pay attention. Yes, I know...)

He arrives and maneuvers the Rescue Van in front of the little white CRV. I pull out the jumper cables. (note: Thanks to this problem, well, ok, thanks to MY problem, we now have really nice jumper cables in this car...) We perform the life support maneuvers on the battery and sure enough, she starts right up. I'm back in business, ready to drive home. My guy pulls out ahead of me. But you know, it's still a little bit foggy out. Maybe I should turn on my lights... (yes, I hear you laughing...)

I get home and carry in the groceries. I make tasty, surprise breakfast tacos and we enjoy a leisurely meal around the table. We make plans for the day, and shower and dress and finally, a couple hours later, we head out to the car. DEAD. Well, I didn't leave it running long enough to charge, I think to myself. I call my guy one more time.

"Sorry, but the battery is dead. Maybe it didn't charge long enough. We'll have to jump it again later," I tell him. Right away he asks me, "Did you leave the lights on again?"

With all my soul, I really want to say, "NO!!! Of COURSE NOT!!!" But then I remember. I remember the fog, now long burned off. I remember the lights. "Mayyyy-beeee," I answer sheepishly. "Well, probably yes..." "KRISTY!" he groans. I close my eyes and nod. Honestly. Twice in one day?

I want to say, I'll never do THAT again. Except I probably will. So all I can say is "I'm sorry."
And I hope that there will be a good breakfast waiting for my rescuer afterward next time, too.

275/365

Last week I read an article about moms who feel "touched out." Nursing babies. Infants who pinch and touch and pet. Toddlers who need to be carried, who need to be assured with a kiss, who get swept up in a hug. Preschoolers who should be kept close, "keep your hand on the cart." Kids who probably will not learn how to read unless they are physically connected to you.
Let me simply state-
five babies in five years.
I know.

There was a period of time when perhaps I was thought of as unaffectionate. That very well might have been absolutely true. But it wasn't out of mean-spiritedness. Certainly, at no point in life has this introvert been mistaken as overly affectionate. But, for a long period of time, I recognize now, I was "touched out." It only has been within the last five years or so that I have neared recovery.  Still, I probably will never be accused of being super demonstrative. At this stage, I have grown to adore the hugs that come in the Latino culture I live in. It is normal for me to greet friends with a pat on the shoulder or even a hug. I love when my kids give me an embrace.

Even so, every once in a while, I am tested. Like when the neighborhood girls want to do my hair. Really. I've had short hair, more or less, since I was 5 years old. I never had ponytails or braids or barrettes. I remember watching my nieces "style" my father in law's hair and cringing, so glad they chose him, not me. These days, especially, I'm pretty low maintenance. Morning shampoo, a few minutes to blow-dry and I'm done. On this particular afternoon, my up-do lasted about 5 minutes. Thankfully, that's around how long the styling took as well. I took a deep breath and survived.

Baby steps.
Maybe one day I'll get a massage...

213/365

Some moments are Bible study, sit alongside, listen, comfort, little kids, older faces, seeking, praying... is this the missionary life!
Some moments are raking, shoveling, trash in the yard, trash in the street, crazy broken phone, what are you trying to tell me, can you please say that again... is this the missionary life?

196/365

Some days are
morning latte,
unsweet tea with lemon,
iced coffee with room,
large diet coke,
water,
limeade,
keep something cold and wet in your hand,
all the day long.

184/365

I once had a friend who, when talking about her growing kids, would be known to say, "THIS is my favorite age!" The rest of us moms finally made her confess that, really, every age was her favorite age. That's how I feel about my own age. Today I was thinking, I love being this age. My family is generally at a good place in life. I have lots of memories and experiences, and have the confidence of trusting our God's faithfulness in those yet to come. I'm ok with "my style," whatever that means, and go figure, my gray hairs are surprisingly hip these days. I have freedom in my days and can even fill in as a babysitter in a last moment pinch. I have even learned to smile at "for everything there is a season...," a place where I have been known to grumble for many years. My favorite age is now.

152/365

Usually the end of vacation finds me ready to be home, but not this time. Two days was not nearly enough. I felt the acedia coming on. Leaving the beach and friends leaving and a dear saint departed to glory, and I resist that heaviness of the urge to flee. I creep on to normal, to obeying the calendar, to making a giant salad and driving down the road to gather. The plodding pays off; the reward comes sitting around the table with close ones who make no demands and community that is easy. Again, more grace than I deserve.

145/365

Sunrise certainly ranks as my primary motivation for getting out of the house early. I can wake up before dawn, no problem. I'm a go to my desk, read, pray, drink coffee alone, quiet before anyone else is awake, kind of girl. Some days, I see the shadowy pastels of morning and know that I missed it, and I really can barely think about lacing my shoes. Seeing the orange on the horizon, that's the money.

141/365

Dear A Dog's Purpose-

I wept.
Flat out, ugly cry, gasping out loud for air, sobbed.

I thought I knew what I was getting into. I thought I was ready for a dog movie. Maybe it was the combination of the kids growing up and the dog growing old and my own kids growing up and my own dog getting old. Maybe it was the very familiar voice of the dog, one with words similar to those we imagine our own pup speaking. No matter, the cinema experience this afternoon was something akin to ripping out my heart and stomping on it, four times.

Then we came home and told our old man Dillon what a good dog he is. Yes, he has fulfilled his purpose.

No more dog movies for a while, okay?
Thanks.
k.

122/365

Good habits protect what’s most important. They keep us on the track of perseverance even when we don’t feel like persevering. They help us access the channels of God’s ongoing grace in the times we need it most (often when we don’t feel like it), and so preserve and keep our souls. Good spiritual habits keep us in God’s word, and in prayer, and among God’s people, even as we ride the emotional ups and downs of life.
- "God Will Hold You Through Your Habits," David Mathis, Desiring God Ministries

I am a creature of habit, and nothing says that more than Tuesdays. I wake up. I run. I go to my Bible reading plan. I read a chapter in a book. I go over my memory verses. (I drink a latte.) I shower. I set up tables at church. I pray with my friend. I prepare dinner. I go to church at 4:30. I make coffee. I pray. I teach. 
Almost every single week. Almost without fail.

Sure, some of that is just routine. But the most important elements of that daily regimen are ingrained deep in my soul. And honestly, those habits, the simple discipline of doing the same thing day after day, week after week, were great grace to me when we went through the rocky waves of the past winter, when moment to moment was to do the next thing. They remain so even now when I wake in a funk. The habits of the Word and of prayer and of gathering together, they persist as more than ordinary grace. 

Mathis writes, "Habits of grace for hearing God’s voice in his word, having his ear in prayer, and belonging to his body help us get our eyes off ourselves so that we might regularly taste “the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord” (Philippians 3:8). They help to make persevering in the faith not be about our technique and actions, but about knowing Jesus." No treasure could be greater.

104/365

Does anyone else in the world find a 3 mintue auto-propelled cleaning trip so immensely satisfying?

102/365

An afternoon cuppa in a favorite mug and then, finishing a book, quickly wiping the tears away before the pest control guy makes a pass through the living room. ..

“To love someone is like moving into a house," Sonja used to say. "At first you fall in love in everything new, you wonder every morning that this is one's own, as if they are afraid that someone will suddenly come tumbling through the door and say that there has been a serious mistake and that it simply was not meant to would live so fine. But as the years go by, the facade worn, the wood cracks here and there, and you start to love this house not so much for all the ways it is perfect in that for all the ways it is not. You become familiar with all its nooks and crannies. How to avoid that the key gets stuck in the lock if it is cold outside. Which floorboards have some give when you step on them, and exactly how to open the doors for them not to creak. That's it, all the little secrets that make it your home. " 
- Fredrik Backman, A Man Called Ove

90/365

"There have been so many times in my life when what I know of God—what I know to be true of Him—clashes with the murkiness of what my day-to-day life looks like. Many days my life seems to be at odds with the God I know, and I find myself doubting Him. I forget He’s good, and that my version of good cannot compare with His perfect knowledge of what truly is. I forget He is faithful, and that my version of faithfulness looks more like getting my own way instead of living according to His. I worship at the altar of today’s circumstances, thinking they’re the most important and most pressing of all."
- "The Fall of Babylon," SheReadsTruth blog

On this afternoon, I stopped to admire the blooms and then right then and there decided that the only thing left to do was go to bed early. And I did.

79/365

-ING on a Monday in Reynosa-

Outside my window... bougainvillea in bright bloom.

I am thinking... about my to-do list, today and beyond.

I am thankful for... the crazy back & forth life I get to live between the United States and Mexico.

From the kitchen... (well, not MY kitchen. I'm mostly at the Isaiah 55 mission this month with spring break short term teams...) I am washing a lot of plastic cups and oatmeal nearly every morning, and loving the food our tremendous Tencha and Leti serve up every day.

I am wearing... capris and the Adventure shirt (NOTE! the Adventure shirt has been mishap free for a good long while now!)

I am creating... I painted walls today and scrubbed paint off of floors. Does that count?

I am going...  home to Harlingen tomorrow! (for 26 hours, anyways!)

I am reading... Major Pettigrew's Last Stand and Dirty Glory right now.

I am hoping... my back is better soon and very soon.

I am hearing... sounds of Mexico, music and dogs and fans.

Around the house... I'm at the mission this week, so my "house" is home to 30ish people, a short-term team from Alabama and the Isaiah 55 staff. LIfe is busy and sometimes dirty and always dusty and always a blessing.

One of my favorite things... today a kid from the neighborhood walked into the house we are painting. I told him, "Bienvenidos a mi casa." He said, "¿En serio?" The look when I said, "Sí, en serio" was priceless. Playing Jenga with the girls tonight, watching the little guys make art, and then, sitting and nothing else at the end of the day.

A few plans for the rest of the week: home to see my girls and ESL and time with my favorite little guy and then back to Reynosa to finish the week. 
SaveSave