10/366

"Objects in mirror are closer than they appear."
Isn't that true of life? Those things that I would be prone to keep at a distance?
The kids that shout and lean in close for an embrace when I walk out the gate.
The dusty dirty streets that I walk each day.
The noisy sounds and funky smells that cause me to shake my head.
The brilliant splashes of color that brighten the ordinary drab.
The promise of hope in the shadow of despair.
All that pokes at me;
all that I can't ignore;
all that keeps me alert to life around me.

Those too are closer to my heart than they often appear.

2/365

I wore today like comfortable old shoes that fit just right. I woke up before the sun and slid out of bed and over to the chair in the corner of the room and sat still to listen. I read those familiar words, faithful and true. My guy delivered a latte with a kiss. I got in the car and drove three turns and ended up with two-handed coffee and a most trusted confidant and prayers washed with sacred tears. I packed the car and hugged my girls and laughed as they goodbye'd us with a salute. We headed back to our other home, with a stop for a few groceries and an ice tea along the way. I drove into the neighborhood and beeped at a kid who returned the greetings with a two-fingered (of significance, as he is known to use just one finger...) wave. I wiped off and mopped up two weeks of dust and my house smelled like Mexican pine. I greeted our gatekeeper and greeted our workers and greeted my teammates and sat in my desk chair and made it wheeze when it lowered. I laughed with friends. We watched the sun put on a show before setting for the night and then ate together. 

This morning my reading ended,

And the commander of the Lord's army said to Joshua, “Take off your sandals from your feet, for the place where you are standing is holy.” (Joshua 5:15 ESV) 

Maybe there are days that make us fall on our face to worship, too.

2 years

Everyone experiences grief differently, not a right way or a wrong way, but differently. I suppose we all have ideas of what grief should look like, or will look like, but the truth is, we don't know how we will respond until it happens.

Two years ago on this day, my first grandson died. We lived our worst nightmare that first month. The first year continued to be hard, all the firsts without Harper- Christmas and birthdays and Mother's Day and vacations. But I guess that maybe I thought after that first year it would get easier.

I didn't anticipate that, really, it doesn't get easier. Not really. There will always and forever be a hole in our family. Last month, I sent Advent calendars to my grands, and I had to rip up a card, and then an envelope, when without even thinking, I wrote Harper's name on both. I do that all the time when naming my grands. I never really know what to say when asked how many grandkids I have. I have four, but not everyone knows how to respond when you mention, "but my oldest died." This year, my second grandson turned the same age of his brother, and all of the sudden I realized, "He's going to start doing things that Harper never did..." And such begins a different season of grief.

On this day, I'm a little bit short of breath, remembering my guy. But I want to make sure, I do not grieve as those without hope.  In response to a grieving mother, John Piper wrote about honoring God even in our sorrow, that "at every moment of the lengthening grief, we turn to him, not away from him. And therefore, the length of it is a way of showing him to be ever present, enduringly sufficient."
This I know to be true. 

I think that perhaps, most of all, we want to believe that the loss of our dear one was not in vain. Harper died of a heart condition that was not discovered. But his death gave opportunity for all the kids of the family to be checked for the same abnormality. And so, although we mourn, we were also comforted when Harper's younger cousin was found to have the same heart condition, and had it corrected by surgery. In a strange way, our loss perhaps saved a little one and for that, we rejoice.

But more than anything else, I trust the sovereign God, and respond with the saints of old who when asked "What is thy only comfort in life and in death?" respond, 

"That I, with body and soul, both in life and in death, am not my own, but belong to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ, who with His precious blood has fully satisfied for all my sins, and redeemed me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me, that without the will of my Father in heaven not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must work together for my salvation. Wherefore, by His Holy Spirit, He also assures me of eternal life, and makes me heartily willing and ready henceforth to live unto Him."

Even still, miss you much, Harper buddy.

 

251/365

Simple Saturday gratitude-

"Then you will know that I am the Lord.
    Those who trust in me will never be put to shame.” (Isaiah 49:23 NLT)

"...the real display of faith is when we trust God's character even when we don't understand his responses or timing." (Carolyn McCulley)

Hot mug, quiet desk.
Comfort apple cinnamon oatmeal.

The satisfaction of a steaming bucket and clean floors.

An entire day with no where to be.

Blue skies and puffy clouds and the bright rays of sun.

“As she read, at peace with the world and happy as only a little girl could be with a fine book and a little bowl of candy, and all alone in the house, the leaf shadows shifted and the afternoon passed. ” (Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn)

An afternoon on the couch and college football on the screen 
(even in a loss...).

Date night.

Making a dent in a pint.

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."

17/365

I huddled in my room all the morning, heater at my feet. Well, every once in a while I might think, "Maybe it's warm enough now," and I'd turn off the heater. A few minutes later, I would turn it back on. I filled up my water bottle with hot tea, and sipped on it, mostly to hold the hot mug and warm my hands, all morning. It came midday, and I ventured out of the room.

Just a few steps in my sock feet, I stepped into water. Really Cold Water. Surprise! Water hugged the edges of the walls. Water pooled at the doorway to my living room. Water soaked a good bit of the rug in the center of the room. Water pretty much filled the front of the house.

That can't be good.

I put on shoes and my husband came home to play detective with me. We couldn't find the source of the water so we went to the school rooms next door. Water met us at the door there, too. But we quickly figured out the headwaters of today's springs- a busted hose on the bathroom sink. He turned off the water and stopped the fountain and stemmed the deluge. Thankfully, we have a couple of guys who could clean up that side, so it was back to my own home.

We dragged out the dripping rug and hung it up outside, though it won't dry for a few days. My guy went back to work. I got to work. I pulled out the mop and the bucket and turned on the TV for noise and started swabbing the floor. I listened to a panel of ladies dish on the virtues and woes of outing cheating husbands on social media. I heard the familiar voice of CJ from the West Wing, now the dysfunctional movie mom of Tonya Harding, tell about waiting for award nominations. "Coming tomorrow... 50 Cent!" I'm not usually known to be a daytime TV watcher. I'm not missing much.

By the time the pools recessed, I had mopped up a full 3 gallon bucket of water. I emptied it out and filled the bucket one more time to go over the floor again with hot water and Pine Sol. Then I included the rest of the house for good measure. I mean, once the mop is out, ya might as well finish it all, right? That finished, I heated up another thermos of tea and went back to my room. And turned the heater back on my feet. I just might stay in until spring arrives.

5/365

The text exchange included,
"I am sure that you have had a busy week and you probably prefer to just chill out..."
"hanging with y'all is an entirely different kind of people time :-)"

Time moves at a different pace when spend the afternoon with a baby. Perhaps, especially so when you have a few years behind you, and you don't worry over every cry and grunt and squeak. Maybe even more so when your week up 'til now was filled with long days and lots of people and plenty of cold. An afternoon in a warm and familiar home with a baby- that's good medicine.

Perhaps the easiest, the most peaceful way, to spend an afternoon is simply to hold a little one in arms. I sit in my favorite chair and hardly move, for nearly four hours. Oh sure, one feeding and later another and some rumbles require a couple of diaper changes along the way. I get up once to make a new bottle. Eventually I set him down and cover him up. I pull out my book, but really, I keep watching. After he sleeps for a bit, I do consider something besides the two of us and go to the kitchen to help with a little dinner prep. But really, this afternoon is mostly chair time. It is mostly about the baby.

When he's awake and back on my lap, I wait for his wandering eyes to suddenly focus on mine. The pay-off is the instant when he centers his attention and after a moment, his lip curls into a little smile. His fingers curl around my pinky. When he's eating, it's watching the rhythm of his cheeks moving, seeing him zone into some distant fantasyland of contentment. He slows when his eyelids weigh heavy, too heavy to keep blinking, and he gives in to sleep.

This guy, he can sleep anywhere. He startles occasionally when some noise interrupts the quiet, but he never yelps and settles again quickly. We wonder, does he dream? I think, when will he start to remember? I pray and hope that he always knows such peace. After a time of snoozing, his eyes open suddenly and he returns to consciousness. And we start the routine all over again. It's all the entertainment I need.

I'm humbled to share these hours of easy. The afternoon is all privilege and I leave grateful. And ready for the next call.

365/365

Dear 2017,

Let's be honest- we had a hard start. Already reeling from tremendous loss in December, we mourned yet again in January. We didn't really recover, not exactly, but we learned to lean in hard on our Savior. We saw his grace and mercy new, time and time again, and in this crazy economy of Already, Not Yet, we kept looking forward. Here it is, the final day of the year, and yes, we find ourselves finishing the year still worshipping the One who is making all things new.

In the in-between months, we were given so much to celebrate- birthdays and graduations, anniversaries and births and announcements of a baby to come. We traveled to new places. We experienced the delight of a beignet and cafe au lait at Café du Monde in New Orleans' French Market. We took in the rainbow hues of Guanajuato homes stacked on a hillside. We oohed and aahed over the orange and golds of the Midwestern change of season.

We heard hard stories in our Reynosa neighborhood, stories of hurt and pain and loss and fear. We heard hard stories in our own families and in families of loved ones, stories of doubt and anxiety and uncertainty. We watched a hurricane come ashore just a 160 miles north of us, and experienced that strange pairing of thankfulness and grief. We followed the news of the world and of our nation, and we often shook our heads. We grieved for families we didn't even know, for tragedy that seemed senseless, for faraway places beyond our reach. And yes, sometimes we were angry- over injustice and over ignorance, over violence and over hate.

Yet even with the hard of all of that, we laughed together. We sang songs together, old and new. We shook our head at the crazy of this world, and at the reality of life that you just can't make up. We played games and watched games and were game to try new things. We know that there is adventure and joy yet to be found.

The greatest experiences yet to come will certainly be found while living another year as a Christ follower, by grace, by faith. I think my prayer on the last day of the year echoes exactly the Valley of Vision prayer for the New Year:

O LORD,
Length of days does not profit me except the days are passed
in thy presence, in thy service, to thy glory.
Give me a grace that precedes, follows, guides, sustains,
sanctifies, aids every hour,
that I may not be one moment apart from thee,
but may rely on thy Spirit
to supply every thought,
speak in every word,
direct every step,
prosper every work,
build up every mote of faith,
and give me a desire
to show forth thy praise,
testify thy love,
advance thy kingdom.

I launch my bark on the unknown waters of this year,
with thee, O Father, as my harbor,
thee, O Son, at my helm,
thee, O Holy Spirit, filling my sails.

Guide me to heaven with my loins girt,
my lamp burning,
my ear open to thy calls,
my heart full of love,
my soul free.

Give me thy grace to sanctify me,
thy comforts to cheer,
thy wisdom to teach,
thy right hand to guide,
thy counsel to instruct,
thy law to judge,
thy presence to stabilize.
May thy fear be my awe,
thy triumphs my joy.

Thank you and good-bye, 2017. And welcome 2018. We are eager to know you.

352/365

(DPP18- 20something years of the annual ornament exchange and a sweet Mexican angel from an even more sweet friend!)

Only two items remain on the list as I drive up to the drug store. I'm hoping that they will have what I need- a quick in and out visit. I pull into the parking lot and slide into the space. And as I open my door, I notice the man sitting on the curb two spaces down.

"Do you have any money?," he asks me as I walk by to the store doors.
"I'm sorry, I have no cash," I tell him honestly.
"Oh that's ok, Mama. God bless you."
"Thank you," I tell him. "And you too."

(just for reference, "Mama" is something of a term of endearment where I live. Even little girls are frequently called "mama" or "mamita." It's really a sweet thing most of the time. And so, I wasn't offended at all.)

I enter the store and sure enough, the one thing I need is in stock, right where it should be. But, the man out front remains on my mind and on my heart. I approach the check out counter, but then turn into the food aisle.

What do you buy a homeless guy to eat from the drug store selection?
Who knows what soda he would prefer? Caffeine or no caffeine? Coke or Sprite or...? No, water.
Something with protein. But maybe jerky is too hard to chew. What kind of nuts? There are none of those little tuna & cracker packages. I'll go with trail mix. With chocolate. Because who doesn't want chocolate?
And something sweet. Cookies? But what kind? Oreos? Chocolate chip? Lorna Doones? A candy bar? I finally settle on powdered sugar donuts, because everyone likes a little tube of powdered sugar donuts, right?

I pay for my purchases, and put them in two different sacks. I walk out the doors. There's a fair amount of traffic and people are coming both in and out. Everyone is ignoring the guy on the curb. In fact, as I walk out, I see a car leaving from the very spot in front of the man, as if he is invisible, as if he doesn't even exist.

He gives me a wave, but I stop in front of him and hold out the bag.
"Here are just a few things for you," I tell him.
"Oh Mama! Thank you!," he says as he receives the sack.
"What's your name?," I ask, as I hold out my hand.
He tells me his name and I introduce myself too.
"How long have you been here? What brought you to the Valley?"
He explains that he is from our area, and has family here even now. He was recently released from 21 years in prison, and is still looking for work, for a place to live. I figure that he has probably burned some bridges along the way.
"Will you spend tonight at the shelter?," I ask him as I point up the street.
"Aw no, Mama," he answers. "That guy, he gets in my face. But hey! It's a great night to be outside."
I laugh, because I imagine that he's not much of a rule follower and because really, it is a pretty nice night.
"Ok then, God bless you."

I get into my car, and I drive away. I spend a few miles remembering other people I've known who have spent time on the street. I think about the life that led to this guy passing another night on the curb, thinking about all those who will ignore that he even exists tonight, thinking about circumstance and choices and mercy and grace.
I arrive home, and walk inside, continuing on with the busyness of the day, and quickly, I, too, forget.

I hope you find family and joy and hope today, Abel.

344/365

DPP10-

(a spot for afternoon tea)

After worship and a Treat of a Lunch, today was
perched on the couch,
reading,
pre-Olympics,
bright sunlight,
hot tea,
finally tackling the procrastination of weeks,
smoking up the house to roast squash,
and very good butternut curry soup.

and it was good.

343/365

DPP9-

(Today the sun came out and the ornaments were shining in its glow.)

I spent the morning playing with little friends. These three almost mirror the distance between my own first three, and they make me smile for just that reason, even besides the fact that they are also just that cute. I remember almost palpably what deployment is like, especially in this season, how long the days are, how days are giving and giving and giving of yourself. The chance for a couple of hours away seemed priceless at times.

Sometimes I hear about a mom who has multiple kids close together and I think,
Wow! That's a lot.
And then I laugh at myself. Yes, it is a lot!

That's a lot of messes.
That's a lot of personality.
That's a lot of conversation.
That's a lot of listening.
That's a lot of laundry.
That's a lot of dishes.
That's a lot of preferences to remember.
That's a lot of activity.

That's a lot of laughing.
That's a lot of joy.
That's a lot of patience.
That's a lot of grace.
That's a lot of mercy.
That's a lot of beauty.
That's a lot of gifts.
That's a lot of sweet.

In our house we, only half-jokingly, call a certain period of time, say 1999-2004 or so, as the Forgotten Years. Oh the fullness of it all, caring for the 5 born in 5 years, a dad away more than home, extended family far away. But oh the fullness of His grace to us, always providing, always with us, always near.
That's a lot of blessing.
That's a lot of peace.

341/365

DPP7-

(Who knew that when we finally got this guy groomed, it would be the coldest day of the year? Sorry Dillon, but hey- at least ya got your pants on!)

The day starts with salt instead of sugar in the oatmeal- really, no joking. As far as disappointments go, that ranks pretty high. There's not much recovering from that sort of accident. I keep trying to make arrangements for my day back at the other home, but nothing seems to come together. And the day continues to become wetter and darker and colder as each hour passes.

Some days might best be described as Roller Coaster Days, highs and lows from one turn to the next. The frustrating turns happy at the next errand on the list. For who doesn't smile when busting a newly coiffed dog out of the groomers? He captures the attention of the girls working the registers and the little kids waiting on their moms. He's a people-person, that dog, much more so than his two chaperones.

Then comes the slow couple of hours holding and feeding a baby, holding and sipping a warm cup of coffee, holding and exchanging words with those whom time always passes too quickly. We ponder this and that and laugh out loud, at ourselves and each other, which is the very best kind of time spent, I think. Wouldn't be wonderful to leave every stop with your heart full?

But then, there comes the hurry to stop on the last errand before grabbing dinner to support a local fundraiser, all in time to make the 6pm cheap movie. Everything looks to be falling into place- until the car battery dies, one hopeful turnover that doesn't quite catch, and then, nothing. Our first rescuer doesn't quite succeed, though not for lack of trying. Thankfully, the best place to be stranded with a dead battery in need of replacement is the Sam's Club parking lot. The automotive guys play hero for us, one guy even pulling up his own car to jump start us on this cold, windy, and wet evening. We move the car to the garage bays and they provide a new battery in a matter of minutes. We finish the transaction and sit in the car for a few minutes, heater blasting, just to warm up.

We miss the start of the movie by then. After stopping by the fundraiser to buy dinner, we head home. We are content to be on the couch with a movie there, thankful to be out of the weather, grateful to pull back into shelter after this up and down roller coaster kind of day.

337/365

DPP3-

(Star of Wonder, Star of Night- the star on the roof of the community center)

I'm learning new Sunday rhythms these days. It's different, not being with my family or my Texas church family on Sundays. I have moved past tearful, but still, I am yet discovering what normal looks and feels like. Worship is at a different time in a different language. I don't always recognize the voices of the people sitting behind me (though I smile broadly when I do!). I often stumble over the responsive reading. I reallyreally have to pay attention to the sermon or I find myself utterly lost. I'm still learning who is who and I sometimes feel as if I should rehearse in my mind ahead of time if I'm going to say anything past "How are you?" or "God bless you."

Then we go home and my afternoon habits are different, too. Recently, my Sunday afternoon routine would be to spend a couple hours with PBS cooking shows while my guy naps. That channel doesn't come in where I live now. The website won't even allow me to play past episodes. No Martha. No Mary Berry. No Chef Vivian. What does PBS have against Mexico, anyway? (grin)

I pass the afternoon lazy by myself while Tim was running an errand. I hear that there is a hot air balloon event in the downtown, but that's really not my guy's thing. I'm not sure how I haven't yet convinced him to love parades and hot air balloons with the same passion that I do... I resign myself to home, and halfheartedly watch the evening news with him. The notice comes in the middle, you know, the part of the broadcast that isn't exactly fluffy human interest stories (which he would turn off but I look forward to...), but not the Make Your Face Grimace and Your Stomach Hurt stories at the top of the show either.

"And you might want to check outdoors to view the Super Moon tonight. For the first and only time in 2017, a visible super moon will illuminate the sky starting Sunday night...," the anchor was telling us. I check my computer. Moonrise Reynosa happens at 6:09 pm. 
"Want to go see?," asks my guy? 
"You're only humoring me because you didn't want to see the balloons," I accuse him. (That wasn't very nice. I am sorry about that.) 
"Yes. Let's go," I say.

Part of the privilege of living where I do is certainly access to the roof at Larry's, to the Helicopter Pad. Let's be clear- sure, it LOOKS like it could be such a thing, but there is NO WAY that a helicopter could land on this structure and survive! But, the deck sits on top of the roof, and it does allow for a pretty decent view of the skyline. It certainly qualifies as the Best Super Moon Viewing Point in the 'hood. We meet a young friend in the street on the way. 
"Where are you going?" he asks us.
"Super moon tonight," we tell him.
"Super luna!," he repeats with enthusiasm, like he knows. 

Up on the roof, we can hear Norteño music coming from no less than three different places, three different voices, three different beats. We can hear the constant drumming of a kid practicing for the next festival. We can hear cars stepping on the gas and peeling out where they probably shouldn't be. We can hear the train in the distance. 6:09. We scan the horizon for the moon, not sure exactly where it will appear. Nothing. We continue to look, to guess. Nothing. Is it possible to miss the Super moon? I refuse to give up yet. A few more minutes pass and I keep surveying the sky and then! Look! It's there! 14% bigger! 30% brighter! 

Of course, the pictures don't show the glory. Even a super moon looks pretty much like a bright eraser dot from the lens of my phone camera. That's ok. At the end of this day, I sit on the roof next to my guy and in the very ordinary rising of even Super moon, again I am reminded that our God is faithful, as faithful as the sun setting and the moon rising, no matter where I am, no matter familiar rhythms or not.

Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,    for his steadfast love endures forever.to him who made the great lights,    for his steadfast love endures forever;the sun to rule over the day,    for his steadfast love endures forever;the moon and stars to rule over the night,    for his steadfast love endures forever;Psalm 136:1, 7-9 (ESV)

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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!

307/365

I look out the bedroom window, over the roofs of houses, over increasingly bare tree limbs waving their last goodbye to fall. I could have been looking out the back window of my house in Omaha; except for the hill in the distance, the scene was that familiar. I realize once again- I never expected to love the Midwest. But I do.

I love the old houses, built in the early 20th century. I know exactly how the wood in their attics smell, the dust of the years, the bite of cold in the winter as you stick your head through the square in the ceiling. I know exactly the faint must of the basements, the creak of the wooden staircase, the drafts that try to drift through the window case gaps. When we lived in an old neighborhood, we knew that only three families had dwelt in the home before us. That sturdy old house matured during a time when people stayed put and in a place where families set roots for generations.

I love the buildings down in the town, the brick structures that have been used and re-purposed again and again over the decades, the faint paint of signs of years past still clinging to the exterior blocks. I look at the upper windows and wonder who lives over the shops and who has improved the doorways and who dreams about working on the street where generations have made their businesses. I cheer renovations and revitalization in long established areas of town, making the old new again.

I love the old churches, their steeples rising above the horizon, their stained glass windows giving a hint of the beauty inside. I love their pews, smoothed over decades of worship, generations of families filing in next to one another for praise and for prayer. I love the old signs that tell congregants what number hymn they are singing this Lord's Day and I love the rich wood that gleams from years of elbow polish and maybe some Old English besides. I hear the voices of the saints when I walk through the doors, the harmony of voices in song, the petitions of prayer uttered aloud. I think of the community that has mourned through hardship and rejoiced in celebration with one another.

I love the hospitality that greets us here. I love how eager Midwesterners are to show you their best. This week my hosts made sure that we visited The Best Donut Shop in town. They gave us a riding tour and told us how things were and how things have changed. They drove different routes to make sure we saw all the countryside. We finish thinking, what a great town! What can we see next time?!

I will always think of myself as a girl from the West. I'm awfully proud answer "New Mexico," when asked, "Where are you from?" But, I'm equally as proud to share how the nearly eight years we spent in Omaha impacted my life. Yes, my temperature finger has been on the edge of numb for a few days. Even so, I'm glad we have opportunity to be back in the Midwest.

303/365

In truth and in short confession, I know that the rules state No Photography. I'm pretty sure that does not just mean No Flash Photography. But I'm awfully proud of this girl- today is her first day of practice with the team. And I don't have opportunity to stand in the doorway and sneak peeks at her flip-flop twisting and leaping very often. I want to document the moment. So I hold my phone stealthily, as if I'm tricking someone, as if I'm intently looking at the screen and not at my gymnast as she somersaults her way across the springy floor. I know, I know- the lighting is too bright and the subject is blurry and overall, the photo is lousy, and I don't get a second pass. Yet despite all that, for me, this photo I'll keep, a visible reminder of this point in time. This capture of a moment will remind me of the faithfulness of our God to answer prayer and to work out the details when we didn't know how, of just how quickly time passes, and of the girl I could once hold in two palms who now springs across the gym.

299/365

Normally our grocery store offers the usual roses, daisies, mums for sale. Who knew that giant marigolds, in balls of bright orange splendor, could be a thing? The scent of marigolds transports me to childhood, and tending the garden, deadheading the blooms once they dried.

But many other pictures went untaken on this day. Vendors sell their wares on the bridge at the US/MX border. Businesses flash by as I travel down the interstate. A cart collects groceries that will later provide four meals. Tomato meat sauce and then pasta bubbles on the stove.

A phone call provides the speediest of summaries and a promise to pray is later fulfilled. A chile relleño plate and a giant glass of tea with a wedge of lime- I share the corner of a table with one of my best confidants.

Tables stacked with bibles, Spanish and English both, ready for the evening activities. Plans confirmed, prayers uttered. "True" and "False" written on the board, ready to be slapped with flyswatters. Faithful and eager faces gather around, diligently repeating, repeating, repeating tongue twister words. Political commentary offered when we least expect it and the grins and laughs that follow. Hugs from all as we exit at the end of the night.

Watching two of my favorite shows with two of my favorite girls. A bowl filled with a brownie and coffee ice cream. A silly, lazy, ridiculously furry dog lays at our feet. The numbers on the clock turn much too late while I bask in dim and silence. All in all, a multitude for which to be thankful, more than I can number well.

298/365

Certainly hundreds of different buttons make up the pile I went to work sorting today. How do you even start? Buttons on cards and buttons in bags. Buttons shiny and plastic and wooden and shell. Buttons with thread yet attached and buttons never before used.

Four holes and two holes and shanked.
Light and dark and colored and shiny metal.
Big and little.

And every once in a while I'd fine two, maybe four, one time six, that match. But mostly, single buttons, lost from their pairs.

The entire time I keep one ear on the conversation in the room, trying to keep track should I need to jump in to make clear a word, express a concept with different terms. And with the other side of my brain, I'm thinking about happenings in other places, wondering what conversations might take place, praying for outcomes yet to be determined. 

I break the rule, to be all there, because admittedly, I'm not, exactly. And yet, how does that work in our God's economy, to live in a posture obedient to the command to pray without ceasing? Each move of a button, one place to another, another silent uttering, a praise and a thanksgiving and a petition to Him who is worthy. Tim Keller writes, "Prayer is both conversation and encounter with God. . . . We must know the awe of praising his glory, the intimacy of finding his grace, and the struggle of asking his help, all of which can lead us to know the spiritual reality of his presence."

... on this day, all while sitting still before a collection of buttons.

290/365

A 12 hour full day,
a commute,
straight to thinking and speaking in two languages,
straight to thinking and speaking in two languages and waiting on a third,
straight to listening to the inflection of beginning readers,
straight to listening to the nearly controlled chaos of a house full of kids.

When I was in the third grade choir, which happened to be my only year of choir (coincidence? probably not...), we sang an old nursery rhyme,
Inchworm, inchworm,
measuring the marigolds, 
you and your arithmetic, 
you'll probably go far.

Inchworm, inchworm,
measuring the marigolds,
seems to me you'd stop and see
how beautiful they are. 

The inchworm isn't the only one with the problem, crawling ever slowly forward without noticing the beauty along the way,
as the soft glow turns to the bright rays of day,
the smile and greeting of the toll worker,
the bustle of the morning commute on the bridge,
the willingness and creativity of our teachers,
the melody and lilt of my second tongue,
the handshake fist bump of our boys,
the brows of our readers, furrowed in concentration,
the sweet smile hugs of our girls,
the hot pink bloom of the buganvilla in the afternoon sun,
the never changing, never ending, promises of our God,
the leave it all in the dirt efforts of our soccer players,
the evening goodbyes until we do it all again tomorrow.

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.