As I once again embark on the couch to 5k running plan, I remembered this post that I wrote last summer.  It’s a good one!

the treadmill

Anybody who wants to join me, please comment.  I am in serious need of accountability.

I have this file in my brain filled with handy little tips collected from Martha Stewart or the pages of magazines like Woman’s World and Ladies Home Journal.  Things like…. using a hammer and nail to make a few holes in the rim of a paint can before pouring the paint so it drips back down into the can instead of down the sides.  Or using a tissue to handle new light-bulbs to avoid getting oil from your skin on them.  (The oil will shorten their lifespan.)  Or… cleaning windows and mirrors with newspaper will leave lintless, streakless perfection.  The list goes on and on, but I can’t really take credit for it.  Most of my brilliance is borrowed from other people.

Several years ago I came up with my own little nugget of genius.  As I put it into practice this week, I thought I’d share….

I shred documents and pick up dog poop on the same day and toss the poop on top of the shredded paper.  That’s it.  My one ounce of brilliance.  If someone wants to steal our identity off of the shredded paper in our trash, they’ll have to dig through a lot of dog poop first.

Warning: Me and Jesus are going to step on some toes.  I actually started this post several days ago and I’ve edited and edited and edited some more.  This is as good as it gets.

I watched a news-clip a few days ago that told the story of a man burning the American flag outside of a VFW.  Being a typical self-righteous American, I instantly labeled the flag-burner as “un-American”.  I don’t think I really need to explain it, but I gave him that label because his actions stand in contradiction to my definition of patriotism.

Because I over-analyze every. little. thing., I thought long and hard about whether or not I show the same passion about my ideals in all my other roles as I do about being an American…

I have called the police after seeing a Mom leave her baby in a hot car and a man beating his toddler in a store. Mom ideals defended

I have hung a purple and gold flag outside my house while living in Columbus, Georgia. LSU fan ideals defended

I have lost friendships with women who wanted me to justify their infidelity. wife ideals defended

I have stood by friends and shown them love and grace as they confessed their infidelity and worked at healing their marriages. friend ideals defended

My over-analyzing thoughts then went to my faith.  Why is it so much easier to call out a flag-burning American for being un-American than it is to call out a cold-hearted Christian for being unChristian?  If you’ve read killing babies, you already know that my emotions run deep when it comes to Christians failing to be Christ-like.  I sat self-righteously smiling as I thought… “Yeah.  I’m good on the faith-front too.  I wrote a blog-post all about taking a stand for Christian ideals.  Several hundred people have read it so I even have witnesses to the fact that I stand up for what is right and wrong.”  And then something unexpected.  My self-righteous smile was replaced with a quivering lip and tears that threatened to spill from my eyes.  You see….

It was easy to address “The Church” at large, for hurting people.  God has done a pretty amazing job at healing my abortion and “lack of grace from The Church” wounds.  The tears began to spill over my eyelids as I realized that it is much easier to address something that is general and in the past, than to address it when it’s personal and a recurring source of pain.

Jesus’ own brother said that God defines true religion as caring for orphans and widows.  When our family was called to adopt we didn’t question the calling.  We took note of the fact that people often looked at us like we’d lost our minds as we declared that we were adopting a little girl with autism and that, “Yes, we do already have a son with autism.  And, yes.  We also have two teenagers.”  Most of those looks came from people who didn’t claim to be Christians though.  Our Christian friends and family stepped up with encouragement and support of every kind.  And then we brought her home.  Most of our support network continued to show us love, encouragement and acceptance in the first year that she was with us.  Then things changed.

As I prepared for Sofija’s sixth birthday I began to take notice of some things.  Maybe I had just grown accustomed to the way people treated us with one child on the autism spectrum.  As I thought about our now very limited social life, I realized that people were a little freaked out by two children on the autism spectrum showing up at the same place at the same time.  This realization made me sad.  Seth and Sofija are two of the greatest gifts any person could ever experience.  And although we have an abundance of people in our lives who treasure every moment spent with them, there are people in our lives who apparently have no clue how to show love to a child who doesn’t meet society’s definition of normal.  Here’s a clue, people… Just love them!  Talk to them like you talk to any other person.  If they respond differently, laugh it off and take note of the moment.  It will likely be one of the richest moments of your life.

When we first moved to the DC area I began praying for friends who were in the same season of life.  Dear hubby and I got married at 22 and became parents ten months and one week later.  Since most people in this area wait to get married and have children, I found that most of my peers had very young children and that the parents of my children’s peers are usually a little older than us. When we adopted Sofija, things just seemed to make sense.  She was born just before we turned 35.  Our peer group in the area have children her age and since we now had a child the same age as all of our friends, we would have more reasons to spend time with all of our friends.  Only it didn’t work out that way.  Our family’s social invitations that had once been overly abundant, greatly dwindled.  I took into consideration that there were now six of us and that it requires a lot of space and food to entertain a family the size of ours.  I pushed aside my concerns over our dwindling social life and invited all of our single friends and the families of every 3, 4, 5 and 6-year-old we know to her party.  My insecurities and doubts quickly disappeared when almost everyone invited showed up.  I came up with at least half a dozen reasons for people not inviting her to parties for their children.  Maybe people forgot she was only five when we brought her home?  She IS huge for her age.  Heck, sometimes I have to remind myself how young she is.  Or maybe they just forgot we have a young child now.  I mean, really.  Who invites a family with teenagers to a party for a 4 or 5-year-old?  Since she was five when we brought her home it did just seem like she appeared out of nowhere.  I can totally see how people could forget all about her.  Or maybe people just didn’t want her to steal the show from their own child.  After all, she does tend to be the most beautiful child in any given room.

I managed to get through a couple of months with my justifications before emails were forwarded to me that reprimanded care-takers for allowing Sofija around other children.  “She’s a danger.”  Evidently someone thinks autism is contagious.  Many months and several un-Christ-like encounters later, I landed in my thoughts concerning the ideals I’m willing to stand up for.

I have quoted Matthew 25:40 to the Christian mom who declared my daughter a danger on several occasions just hoping that she’d “get it”.  It is taken from Jesus’ parable on goats and sheep.

Matthew 25:31-46 “When he finally arrives, blazing in beauty and all his angels with him, the Son of Man will take his place on his glorious throne. Then all the nations will be arranged before him and he will sort the people out, much as a shepherd sorts out sheep and goats, putting sheep to his right and goats to his left.

 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Enter, you who are blessed by my Father! Take what’s coming to you in this kingdom. It’s been ready for you since the world’s foundation. And here’s why:

   I was hungry and you fed me,
   I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,
   I was homeless and you gave me a room,
   I was shivering and you gave me clothes,
   I was sick and you stopped to visit,
   I was in prison and you came to me.’

 “Then those ‘sheep’ are going to say, ‘Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?’ Then the King will say, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: WHENEVER YOU DID ONE OF THESE THINGS TO SOMEONE OVERLOOKED OR IGNORED, THAT WAS ME—YOU DID IT TO ME.’

 “Then he will turn to the ‘goats,’ the ones on his left, and say, ‘Get out, worthless goats! You’re good for nothing but the fires of hell. And why? Because—

   I was hungry and you gave me no meal,
   I was thirsty and you gave me no drink,
   I was homeless and you gave me no bed,
   I was shivering and you gave me no clothes,
   Sick and in prison, and you never visited.’

“Then those ‘goats’ are going to say, ‘Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry or thirsty or homeless or shivering or sick or in prison and didn’t help?’

“He will answer them, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you failed to do one of these things to someone who was being overlooked or ignored, that was me—you failed to do it to me.’

 “Then those ‘goats’ will be herded to their eternal doom, but the ‘sheep’ to their eternal reward.”

In order to stop beating our heads against a proverbial wall, dear hubby and I have taken steps to protect Sofija from encounters with the mom who declared her “a danger”.  We also try to remember our Miranda rights before all conversations concerning our children…. “Anything we say can and WILL be used against us (& our children).”  We’ve ensured that there is one less orphan in the world and we will continue to do everything in our power for “the overlooked and ignored”.  Or as other translations say, “the least of these”.

But you know what?  That’s not enough.  The parable doesn’t just talk about the rewards for those who look out for the overlooked and ignored.  It gives a strong warning for those who don’t.  Here’s the deal.  I don’t want that warning to apply to anyone I care about.  I don’t want to be a sheep in a flock that includes goats and I don’t plan to leave our flock.  I think the position I’m in is referred to as a quagmire.

After wiping the tears from my eyes, I remembered that I have a platform to speak from.  I sat down to write this post without knowing exactly what I would say, but knowing that I had to use my blog to say something.  As an American it is acceptable for me to declare my disgust over a man burning a flag.  But why exactly does that disgust me?  Maybe it’s because I’ve been married to a soldier for more than eighteen years and because our family has made very real sacrifices to insure that the American flag still stands for freedom.  That man’s actions did not just disgust me.  They pained me.  I experienced emotional pain over his lack of appreciation for the freedom that flag represented.

As a Mom, I do find disgust in anyone calling my daughter a danger.  But as a Christian, it pains me to witness other Christians ignoring the warning in the second half of that parable.  The sacrifices my family has made for American freedoms don’t come close to the sacrifice Jesus made for eternal freedom.  Shouldn’t a Christian hurt at the sight of their Christian brothers and sisters overlooking or (worse yet) discriminating against “the least of these”?

I should probably make it clear that I’m not looking for apologies or invites.  I am also not insinuating that anyone who has not invited Sofija to a birthday party has hurt our family.  I just wish that people would see that God has called everyone who claims to be his follower to take care of orphans and to go the extra mile for those with disabilities.  I’m just hoping that someone will read this and ‘get it’.  That a Christian or two will read Jesus’ parable and take a stand to be a sheep and not a goat.

I’m determined to work on my ‘about me’ page today.  I have written an entire book ‘about me’ and the task of condensing all the things I’ve learned about myself into one page is somewhat daunting.  While postponing that daunting task, I decided to back-up my blog by putting all of my posts, in sequential order, into a single document.  In the process of reviewing our adoption journey and all that has happened since, I rediscovered just how richly blessed I am.  So, while I’m working on that ‘about me’ page and editing that book that I do actually hope to publish, I thought I’d repost some of my favorites.

the giver ~ originally published 6-18-2010

While driving home from the post office, Seth looks over at me and says, ” I think I have a curse on me with my singing.”  I very quickly responded with, “Don’t ever say that!  Curses come from the devil and gifts come from God.  Your singing is a gift.”  Seth: What other gifts did God give me?  So I started naming them and he started counting.  You’re very smart.  One.  You’re very funny.  Two.  You’re caring and loving and compassionate.  Three, four, five.  You’re very loving.  Six.  You bring people joy.  Seven.  Don’t forget about the singing.  Eight.  You’re always thoughtful. Nine.  You’re VERY handsome. Ten.  He then puts out his hand as if telling me to stop, bows his head, puts his hands together under his chin and begins to pray.

“Ten gifts.  Wow.  God, you’re the best gift-giver in the whole world.

I love you, God. (a few moments of silence)

(and then…directed at me) I heard His voice.  He said He loves me too.”

Yes.  I cried.  Once again I was reminded through my child exactly how amazing my God is.

I have a thing for numbers. I remember birthdays and anniversaries and I tend to plan things around the numbers I like the best. Out of the numbers that I prefer, the number eighteen is my favorite. My next favorites are two and eight. Two because it can make all other numbers even and eight because it becomes infinity when turned on its side (and it’s fun to write). I try to find ways to add up dates to make them divisible by two, eight, or eighteen. Don’t ask me why. It’s just the way I function. And yes. I know that this admission totally validates my neurosis.

My husband originally asked me to marry him in 1989. We were seventeen. Five years, a few break-ups, good and bad relationships with other people, and several proposals later, I agreed to actually set a date to marry him. I told him that we should do it quickly before I changed my mind. My grandparents were married on February 18th, 1945 and they were my favorite example of how marriage should be done. The day I agreed to set a date just happened to be six weeks before their 49th wedding anniversary. A calendar and a phone call were all it took to discover that 2-18-1994 was on a Friday and the chapel where I wanted to get married just happened to have an opening that night. So, on a date that included my favorite numbers and that symbolized my favorite marriage, we tied the knot.

After eighteen years of looking forward to our eighteenth wedding anniversary, the plague decided to visit our house at the least opportune time. My plans for the numerically perfect anniversary had not included coughing, fever, body aches or the inability to breathe through my nose. But I went with it. We made reservations at a dinner theater and I planned to take large doses of cold medicine. By the time we arrived at the theater my cold medicine was doing little to help me breathe through my nose and it had evidently taken all the moisture from the rest of my body and deposited it in my ears. I could not smell. I could not hear. And I needed water. Lots of water.

The hostess greeted us with, “We have several rather large guests this evening which means that the paths to your table are quite narrow…” Seriously. All I’m going to say about that part of the evening is that the combination of “rather large guests” and the winter-weight dear hubby and I are carrying, made for an interesting walk to our seats. When I made the reservations I was told that we would be sharing a table with other guests. As soon as we sat down I drained my glass of water and picked up the drink menu. I couldn’t read it. I moved it away from my face and then pulled it closer. No luck. The love of my life (along with our table-mates) sat there staring at me. DH ~ “Are you okay?” Me ~ “I think I put my contacts in the wrong eyes. Again.” DH ~ laughter.

Great. Just great. Can’t smell. Can’t hear. Can’t see. I put my hand on dear hubby’s thigh just to make sure my sense of touch was still intact.

I continued to drink glass after glass of water while we ate. Hubby said it tasted good. I couldn’t really tell you. My sense of taste had apparently disappeared with my sense of smell. Adding insult to injury, when it was time for the show to start I turned towards the center of the theater (they perform in the round). This was my view.

SERIOUSLY! The theater was exceptionally warm. Since she clearly didn’t need the fur hat for warmth, I started guessing why she was wearing it. Bald? To lazy to do her hair? Narcissist who wanted her head to take up more space than any other head in the building? Whatever her reason, she kept the dang hat on for the entire evening. Dear hubby and I moved our chairs and enjoyed the fuzzy performance.

During intermission (which our table-mate kept referring to as “half-time”) I squeezed my winter-weight and my very-full bladder past the “rather large guests” and made my way to the lobby. My very-full bladder immediately panicked. There were at least a hundred women in line to use what appeared to be a very small bathroom. A little word of wisdom to all the ladies. You don’t need to make small talk while standing in line to use the bathroom. I’ve pushed out three children. Two of them weighing in at nearly ten pounds. It is not physically possible for me to concentrate on holding my bladder AND give an intelligent answer to your questions about ‘the show’s musical composition”. I have zero musical ability anyway. You asked the wrong stranger.

By the time I actually got inside the door of the ladies’ room, my vision was not only blurry, I could not see straight. The strange ladies had stopped speaking to me when I started praying out loud for God to “Please help me hold my bladder until I’m on a toilet!” When it was my turn, I ran to the open stall, quickly spread out a seat cover and sat to…. Wait! “Oh. My. Word. I think I may vomit. What did that old lady who ran out of this stall do in here?” My limited sense of smell did not filter the odor she left behind. As I attempted to filter it by breathing the top of my dress, the woman in the stall next to me let out an explosion. I’m fairly certain that an emphatic, “REALLY??” slipped through my lips. Another word of wisdom, ladies. When you make a trip to the restroom during half-time of any event. The hundred or so ladies in line behind you will greatly appreciate it if you just relieve your bladder and save the rest for when you get home.

After the second half of the show, I forced begged my dear hubby to take a picture with me. The man absolutely hates to have his picture taken. With the hope that I will someday just stop asking him to take pictures, he starts making goofy faces the minute a camera is mentioned. Honey, give up. I will continue to take pictures of your goofy faces for as long as I have the privilege of living life with you. If you always want people to look at our pictures and then tell you that you married up. So be it.

On the drive home we laughed hysterically about the evening. After thanking each other for such a fun night and then for an eventful eighteen years, our conversation turned a little serious. We started discussing what we’ve learned in the time that we’ve been married. We came up with the following eighteen items. Some are bits of wisdom passed on to us from those who’ve run the race a little longer and some are hard-learned lessons. Our hope is that somebody will read this list and receive a bit or two of wisdom from our hard-learned lessons.

18 things we’ve learned about marriage

1. Treat your spouse better than anyone else treats them. We all want to be around people who build us up. If the person who does that for your spouse is someone other than you, guess who your spouse is going to want to spend time with.

2. When you fight, don’t vent to your friends and family. They’re not in love with your spouse and long after you’ve kissed and made up they are going to remember the dirt you’ve shared with them.

3. Have friends who love their spouse. Nothing good will come from keeping company with a person who constantly complains about the person they chose to marry.

4. Trade the worst for the best (Dear hubby shared this one last night for the very first time. He’s a keeper. :)). When your spouse shows you the worst of their character, think about all of their best qualities. When you remember the things you like about a person it’s easy to forget the things you don’t.

5. Be the first to apologize.

6. Don’t go to bed angry. It is easier said than done, but it is a very worthy goal.

7. Spend time with couples who will speak truth. It may hurt your pride to be on a double-date and have someone ask you, “Are you treating him the way you want to be treated?”, but it will never hurt your marriage.

8. Avoid alone-time and personal conversations with anyone of the opposite sex (or the same sex if you find yourself craving more time and/or sharing more with that person than with your spouse).

9. Keep a common interest (other than your kids). There was something that the two of you couldn’t stop talking about when you first met. Keep talking about it and when you lose interest in it, find something new to talk about.

10. Pay attention. I try to make mental notes of everything my husband says he is interested in. “I love this band.” (Get concert tickets) “I’d like to eat there some day.” (Make reservations for date night) “I’d trade a kid for one of those guns.” (Buy him a weapon for father’s day.) When you pay attention to what your spouse talks about, you will never run out of ways to show them you love them.

11. Have sex. Lots of sex. In premarital counseling, I had a little old lady look at me and say, “Kaci, sex is as necessary to a man as food. Just always think of it as a meal. Sometimes he’ll give you several courses of fine dining and sometimes it’ll be like going through the drive-thru at McDonald’s.” She was a very wise woman.

12. Give grace. The Bible tells us repeatedly to forgive others so that God can forgive us. We’ve learned that giving the same kind of grace that we hope to receive is our only hope for a peaceful home.

13. Confess. Confess. Confess. When you hide things it’s an absolute certainty that the enemy will start asking you, “What is she/he hiding from you?” Secrets and half-truths lead to guilt, distrust, accusations, and insecurity. If you feel the need to keep something from your spouse, share it with your spouse immediately. Wine and cheese get better with age. Not sin.

14. Don’t let the kids come between you. Believe me. They will try. And try. And try. When your kids can turn you against each other it makes them insecure and it damages your marriage. Remind yourself often that when two people have a child, they have a common enemy.

15. Remember that your spouse IS NOT your enemy. It is very easy to assume that every pain they cause you is intentional. It usually is not. Go back to number 12.

16. JDate. We just started dating regularly about six months ago. We don’t know what took us so long, but date-night is now our favorite night of the week.

17. Study your spouse. I sometimes ask my hubby, “Tell me something I don’t know about you.” Even if it’s a small detail about his workday that I would likewise have never known, I feel closer to him because he’s shared something new with me. This one is actually a pretty big deal. It is easy to get bored and to watch years slip away filled with the mundane. Married life and a faith life are exactly the same. When I study and seek the heart of God, I fall in love with Him over and over and I get a glimpse of just how much He loves me. When I study and seek the heart of my husband, I fall in love with him over and over and I get reminded that the love he has for me is the closest I have ever come to the love God has for me.

18. Pray for each other. Out loud. We went on a marriage retreat in the summer of 2003 where we were told to find a spot in a room full of people where we could pray for each other. We were both scared. Quite certain that we were the only couple in the room who had never prayed together, we held hands, closed our eyes, pressed our heads together and listened for a few minutes to the people around us to see if they knew how this was supposed to work. Realizing that nobody around us sounded any more comfortable than we felt, we started praying. In that half an hour we took turns thanking God for all the things we love about each other and claiming His blessings over each other. When we were done we looked at each other and discussed the fact that neither of us had ever felt so loved or so secure in our relationship.

So there you have it. Eighteen things we’ve learned in eighteen years of marriage. Hoping that in the next eighteen we learn to fight a little fairer, love a little bigger, forgive a little faster, and actually live out all the things we’ve learned thus far.

According to dictionary.com, to be plagued is to be “troubled, annoyed, or tormented in any manner.”  Yep.  My family is plagued with illness at the moment.  Five out of the six of us have been to the doctor in the past two days.  Four different doctors have diagnosed us with “a virus” and told us to just treat the symptoms and wait it out.  Fun!  I’m so thankful I got out of bed and put on real clothes to go have someone tell me to just “wait it out.”  Because I refuse to see my glass as half empty I have been trying really hard to find some humor in the middle of our misery.  I haven’t had much success in finding humor, but I have noted a few interestingly bizarre and pretty gross occurrences…..

After almost two weeks of a fever, coughing, and blowing gallons of green snot from her nose, Sofija broke out in a rash on Valentine’s Day. It’s one of those bizarre viral rashes that comes and goes in different places all over her body.  She’s been absolutely miserable. 

True confession:  I’m not too heartbroken over her being so sick.  She has asked us to hold her and cuddle her and kiss her and hug her more in the last two weeks than she has in the last two years.  Which leads to interesting  occurrence number two….

To our knowledge, Sofija has never thrown up in her entire life.  Anyone who has known our family for any length of time knows that we consider it a true gift from God to have a child who isn’t a puker.  We are a puking family.  When my big kids were little I washed bedding every single day.  A lioness typically awakes each morning and heads out to hunt for food.  This lioness spent many years going on a morning hunt for partially digested food spread out in someone’s bed.

Yesterday, Sofija joined our club.  She climbed in her Tata’s lap and asked him to tickle her back.  And then… she opened her mouth and spewed all over him.  She then proceeded to totally freak out.  My poor baby had no clue what was happening.  To make matters worse, in an attempt to teach her how it’s done, Chad carried her to the bathroom and told her to throw up in the toilet.  Once again, she freaked out.  “Don’t throw Sofija in the toilet!”  “I don’t want to go in the toilet!”  And today, every time she coughs, she starts crying and says, “Please don’t put Sofija in the toilet!” Baby girl, don’t worry.  Nobody is going to put you in the toilet.  And since you just don’t understand how it’s supposed to be done, you can just keep puking on your Tata as you see fit. 😉

Interesting occurrence number three is really a small victory.  Remember the warts on Seth’s feet?  Well, they haven’t gone anywhere.  We have attempted to freeze them off five times, applied duct tape, soaked them in near-boiling water, covered them with various cooking oils, and painted them with nail polish.  He has been incredibly brave through all of our home-remedy torture.  The patch of warts in this picture haven’t really been a concern to us.  They appear to be shrinking and we’ve just gone with the doctor’s assurance that (even it takes a year or two) they will eventually go away on their own.  On his other foot, he has a HUGE plantars wart in the middle of his arch.  All of our efforts to get rid of it seem to have actually made it worse.  The thing is like an alien life-form.  It just keeps getting bigger and uglier and judging by the many shades of red it’s taken on in the last few days, I’m pretty sure it’s pissed at us for trying to destroy it.  So today, we broke up the monotony of being told to “just wait it out” with a look at the foot monsters.  Since dear hubby is a soldier, we receive medical care at a military treatment facility  This means we often deal with the frustration of getting to know a completely different doctor every time we need to be seen.  Today we got a different doctor.  But…Today was not one of those frustrating moments.  Today, my baby boy got to see a different pediatrician from the one who told us to just use duct tape and soak his feet in hot water.  Today, he got to see a kind lady who had compassion for the fact that a stimmer does not need the additional stimulation of constant pain in the arch of his foot.  Next week we see a dermatologist.  Small victory, but we’ll take it.

Occurrence number four is one that I’m sure I will laugh about some day.  Just not today.

When illness shows up in our house, I have a tendency to get a little crazy.  Okay, on a normal day I’m a little crazy.  When illness shows up, my kids and dear hubby would probably say I’m totally neurotic.  As evidence of my neurosis, I have a recycle bin that is overflowing with empty Clorox wipes containers.  Despite the fact that winter never showed up in DC this year, everyone in our house has hands that look like we live in the Canadian rocky mountains due to my insistence that hands must be washed every hour.  Me and Howie Mandel could hang out. (All of my international friends, Howie Mandel is an American game-show host who is famous for being a germaphobe)  Of course there would be no handshaking or hugging involved, but we could stand on opposite sides of the same room and totally understand each other.  My dear hubby may not understand or even sympathize with my germaphobe neurosis, but because he loves me, he plays along.  On Valentines Day he went out for cough syrup, a new air filter, and more Clorox wipes.  He came home with everything on the list AND four boxes of Anti-Viral Kleenex.  That man totally speaks my love language.

Since everyone is still coughing and snotting and running fevers, I decided that we needed to take additional measures to sanitize the house.  “Wait it out” could have many interpretations.  Right?  Some action on my part must be required in the waiting.  So, I made a stop on my way home from the doctor just to buy new anti-allergen mattress and pillow covers.  Since I had to get out of bed and get dressed anyway, it only made sense that I seize the opportunity to make my bed a little healthier before climbing back into it. Who knows?  Maybe the plague bugs are living in our pillows and just keep reinfecting us night after night. So anyway, I got home with my new germ-buster pillow and mattress covers and placed them on the kitchen counter with all intentions of putting them to good use after once again wiping down the doorknobs and switch-plates and eating dinner.  And then, just before I tossed a germ-infected wipe in the kitchen trash, guess what I discovered.  One of my precious new pillow covers was not only out of its package, it was wadded up in the trash.  I removed it from the trashcan, stretched it out, and gagged.  Add another 1/4 cup of snot to the gallon my baby girl has blown out in the last two weeks.  Me~ “Sofija, did you blow your nose on my new pillow cover.”  Sofija proudly replied, “Yes, Mama!”  Looks like I’m getting dressed and going to the store again tomorrow.  Maybe I should grab new toothbrushes for the entire family while I’m out.  And, since I don’t have a germ-proof pillow to lay my head on tonight, I think I’ll write Isaiah 40:31 on several index cards and post it all over my house.  After all, if I have to wait for something, it might as well be the Lord.

Yet, the strength of those who wait with hope in the Lord
      will be renewed.
         They will soar on wings like eagles.
            They will run and won’t become weary.
            They will walk and won’t grow tired.

Thirteen or fourteen years ago, while sitting in a military clinic awaiting a mole removal, I overheard my doctor reminding her nurse that she had to go get her ‘plague 2’ shot as soon as she was done seeing patients.  As she put a scalpel to my back I asked her, “What exactly is plague 2?”  Her response, “I don’t really know.  The Army just requires me to get vaccinated against it.”  That’s a quote from a doctor, folks.  Whatever plague 2 is, my husband (and every other American soldier) has been vaccinated against it numerous times throughout his 22+ years in the Army.

I can’t say if plague 2 is similar to the plague described in all those classic novels or if it’s a little more like the Ebola virus.  What I do know is that its close cousin has taken up residence in our house for the last two weeks.  While our unwelcome house-guest has made itself at home, I have composed at least half a dozen blogposts in my head.  Seeing how it’s taken every last ounce of energy for me to occasionally hit the like button on Facebook, those blogposts are still swirling around in my head.  Hopefully I’ll find the time, energy, and motivation to write more in the next few days.  In the meantime, I wanted to share a great post that I read today over at Raising Homemakers.  Kelly did an excellent job of summing up all the important stuff we wish somebody had told us about marriage in a letter to her children.  Enjoy!

Many years ago I found myself struggling with thoughts and memories that led to pain and anger.  At the time, I had a newborn baby and my husband was away doing military training.  There was no time to sit and have a pity party.  So, I bought a notebook and starting writing down all the junk in my head.  Most of what I wrote would not have made sense to anyone trying to read it.  I don’t think I used punctuation or capitalization and when the really painful things came to my mind, I often just scribbled so hard that I tore the paper. Over the course of two weeks, I filled two notebooks.  When I was done, I tore the pages out, one by one, and burned them in our fireplace.  The catharsis of that moment cannot be described with words.

In the years since, I have advised countless people to do the same.  Getting the junk out of your head has been the Kaci cure-all prescription.  The disclaimer on the prescription was to describe just how important it was to try the write-burn process before verbalizing any destructive or painful thoughts. Proverbs 18:21 is pretty clear about the power of our words.  They can bring life and they can bring death.  If you want to know more about the power of our words, click the link and read James 3:1-12.  When it comes to verbalizing the negative thoughts we have about other people, Miranda rights always apply……”Anything you say can and WILL be used against you…..”  But….what you scribble in a notebook and burn, is just between you and God.

Although the knowledge of the importance of purging destructive thoughts has been with me for ages, it has been a while since I’ve practiced what I preach.  Yesterday an issue came up between me and my dear hubby.  It was one of those issues where we have completely opposite opinions concerning a third party.  Our vast differences of opinions has challenged us to agree to disagree. Does anyone ever really master that?  If you have any suggestions on exactly how it’s done, please share.

After 24 hours of resisting the urge to defend my stance (for the umpteenth time), I pulled out a journal and started writing.  By the time I got to page three I realized that it was about time I took a dose of my own medicine.  The last twelve months have been about as close to hell as I care to get.  On more occasions than I care to count, I have had flashbacks to my high school ceramics class.  Our family has been placed in a kiln, endured ridiculously hot fire, taken out of the fire only long enough to cool down and have the next layer of glaze applied, and placed back in the kiln so we could endure the fire all over again. God has delivered on his promise from Isaiah 43:2, the flames have not consumed us.  Similar to the teacup I made in my ceramics class, each trip through the fire brought the impurities in our lives to the surface.  God has ripped away toxic relationships and stripped us of roles and titles that were not a part of our identity in Him.

Through our refining process I tried to document what was happening by blogging.  What I failed to do was purge my mind of all the junk.  While writing in my journal today, I discovered that the junk is in abundance.  I can’t say that the writing I’ve done so far has achieved any progress in the “agree to disagree” situation with my dear hubby (I do hope that someday I can learn to live out Matthew 5:43-44 the way that he does.), but I do already feel the kind of freedom that only comes when you consciously forgive someone.  And… I still have a lot of purging to do.  If you haven’t heard from me in two or three days, please check on me.

Note to self: It is not wise to spend a year walking in and out of a furnace without repeated doses of the Kaci cure-all.