When I was 11 and in the sixth grade, I had a best friend, Megan. She was my first real elementary school best friend. We did everything together: We had sleepovers. We hung out after school. We talked on the phone all the time. We played at recess. I always had someone to sit with at lunch.
Until the day she wasn't my friend anymore.
And that's when sixth grade became Hell on Earth.
Crank calls. Name-calling. Mean notes passed. Rumors spread. Others turned against. Overnight it felt like my best friend had turned me into a social pariah. A series of lies even landed me my first trip to detention. It was her word against mine. I had nothing.
How do you tame a bully? Judging by the news we see every day about school shootings striking at younger and younger ages, no one knows. Nearly 20 years ago, they didn't know. My mom worked at my school, and she was at a loss. The teacher put all the girls in a circle, and we went around sharing our feelings about our "classroom tension."
Being in front of a firing squad. That's how it felt. I sat helpless while each girl took turns sharing what she didn't like about me. And there was Megan, across the circle, smiling smugly. She had won.
Somehow, I made it through sixth grade. And then middle school, where a new circle of friends ( the "popular girls") realized I lacked social purchase and turned me out of the group. I discovered the weird kids: The goth kids, the band geeks, the theater nerds. The newspaper and yearbook people. I went extremist weird because I knew I'd never be "popular." And I survived it.
It was a lifetime ago now. That awkward, insecure, desperate-to-be-accepted little girl has given way to who I am today: Still awkward, still a little insecure. But confident, too. And strong. Powerful. And now I have someone on my side that I didn't fully understand in the sixth grade: Jesus.
The God of the outcast. The God of the unwanted. The God of the prostitute, the tax collector, the fisherman, the possessed. The destroyed. My God.
Thank God.
This month, I heard from Megan. A cry across the Internet for forgiveness. Sparked, she says, by her own children, and the consuming fear that someone might treat her child the way she treated me. "You did nothing to deserve any of it," she said. An innocent bystander in the trainwreck of adolesence.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Saturday, November 9, 2013
God of the Lost
Like so many families, mine has always had Christmas traditions. Many of these involved ornaments. For years, my grandma would give all the grandkids a Christmas ornament. I think it was a cheap gift for her -- something she could get every single one of us and not break the bank. I amassed a small collection of Avon teddy bear ornaments: One playing the piano. One sits on a block. A pair sit on a bench. Each is lovingly marked on the bottom the year I received it.
Then there are the ornaments given to me by my parents: Mostly clay pieces made by a local company and shaped into something memorable from the previous year. There's me as a curly-haired baby in pink jammies. A clay-me in my Girl Scout uniform (Junior status). Me in a raft, to commemorate the year we all learned to canoe. The tradition has continued: I now have me and TJ in wedding clothes; TJ and me with my baby bump, "Clark" written across it. And a green clay dinosaur for Clark.
Each of us three kids had a box of ornaments going up. We'd share in the task of hanging the "family" ornaments, but everyone got the honor of hanging their own box on the tree. We knew which ones were ours, we knew the stories behind each. All the miscellaneous pieces crafted in Sunday school classes from plastic communion cups; the ones made in school; the ones made with scouts. Each had a story, a memory. A moment, forever lost until each December when the lid of our Ornament Box was lifted.
Somewhere between high school graduation and getting married in 2009, I lost my ornament box.
Mom hadn't put up a tree since I left home, and the family ornaments had been divided up. Along with my tub of family ornaments, I still had my shoebox of "my" ornaments, unwilling to mingle them. But between moving 6 times in three months in Coeur d'Alene, then to Moscow, then to Rapid City (four houses there) and then Yakima (two houses), the shoebox disappeared.
I figured it had gotten misplaced on top of a closet at some random apartment complex, or left in the car of some friendly helper during a move. I searched my dad's house in Sandpoint and his house in Montana, just in case. I searched my mom's closet. I begged her to look. And each Christmas I decorated a tree without my ornaments, I cried.
They were gone.
My mom came to visit this week, and she told me she was bringing her Christmas decorations so I could go through them and pick out what I wanted to keep. She's done hanging the family heirloom decor. Thinking about it, I felt renewed sadness for the loss of my Box.
And I remembered what my mom had always taught me: That God knows where everything is. And I prayed.
Dear God, find my ornaments.
It was so trivial. Such a shot-in-the-dark prayer. But maybe, maybe, I thought. Maybe some landlord would find the box in lost-and-found and remember me. Maybe some friend would call out of the blue. Maybe my dad would have them, afterall.
Maybe. Just maybe.
Dear Lord, I hoped, you know where they are. Can I have them again?
Last night, my mom and I pulled out Christmas memories, one-by-one, from her plastic tub. We opened each box and told the story of the candle stick, or centerpiece, or snow globe, to TJ. Who gave it to us. My favorite memory of it. What happened to the snowman's pipe. I set aside the ones I was the most found of to bring out for my own son this year.
About halfway down the box, I had a glimmer of hope. I lifted a small box out. Then another. And one more. And there was the edge ... a gray, square box. No. I thought. No way.
My shoebox. My ornaments.
Savannah's Ornaments was scrawled across the bottom in my 8-year-old handwriting. I lifted the lid, and they were there:
Two teddy bears on a bench. Clay Savannah in Junior Uniform. Clay Savannah in Raft. Bear at piano. A white reindeer. My Communion Cup Birdfeeder. A styrofoam egg covered with red circles to be a Santa Claus.
My ornaments. My memories. My childhood.
I sat on the couch and cried, taking each out, unwrapping, remembering. "You'll never get the box closed if you take them all out," my mother warned.
And I didn't care. I don't want that box closed ever again. I want it out. I want them all lined up on a shelf and displayed, a constant reminder that God cares.
God cares. He cares about your lost things -- your lost keys, your lost socks, your lost memories. My lost ornamnets.
God cares because he is the God of the Lost. He is the God who leaves the 99 and seeks the 1 sheep that wandered away. He is the God who welcomes back the lost son.
The thing I forget about that, is I think God has to come find me when I am lost. But like my ornaments, that's not true. God always knows where you are. He will never lose sight of you, even if you lose sight of Him.
And when you come home, He lovingly picks you up, holds you. Looks at you. And remembers you: This is my child. I made her on July 10, 1985. I remember the year she made Junior in Girl Scouts. I remember when she learned to canoe. I was with her when she got married. I was with her when she gave birth to her son. I am with her today. I remember when she thought she was lost.
I remember when she came home.
And He cries a little at his found You.
"What man among you having a hundred sheep and losing one of them would not leave the ninety-nine in the desert and go after the lost one until he finds it? 5And when he does find it, he sets it on his shoulders with great joy 6and, upon his arrival home, he calls together his friends and neighbors and says to them, ‘Rejoice with me because I have found my lost sheep.’ 7I tell you, in just the same way there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who have no need of repentance." Luke 15:4-7
Then there are the ornaments given to me by my parents: Mostly clay pieces made by a local company and shaped into something memorable from the previous year. There's me as a curly-haired baby in pink jammies. A clay-me in my Girl Scout uniform (Junior status). Me in a raft, to commemorate the year we all learned to canoe. The tradition has continued: I now have me and TJ in wedding clothes; TJ and me with my baby bump, "Clark" written across it. And a green clay dinosaur for Clark.
Each of us three kids had a box of ornaments going up. We'd share in the task of hanging the "family" ornaments, but everyone got the honor of hanging their own box on the tree. We knew which ones were ours, we knew the stories behind each. All the miscellaneous pieces crafted in Sunday school classes from plastic communion cups; the ones made in school; the ones made with scouts. Each had a story, a memory. A moment, forever lost until each December when the lid of our Ornament Box was lifted.
Somewhere between high school graduation and getting married in 2009, I lost my ornament box.
Mom hadn't put up a tree since I left home, and the family ornaments had been divided up. Along with my tub of family ornaments, I still had my shoebox of "my" ornaments, unwilling to mingle them. But between moving 6 times in three months in Coeur d'Alene, then to Moscow, then to Rapid City (four houses there) and then Yakima (two houses), the shoebox disappeared.
I figured it had gotten misplaced on top of a closet at some random apartment complex, or left in the car of some friendly helper during a move. I searched my dad's house in Sandpoint and his house in Montana, just in case. I searched my mom's closet. I begged her to look. And each Christmas I decorated a tree without my ornaments, I cried.
They were gone.
My mom came to visit this week, and she told me she was bringing her Christmas decorations so I could go through them and pick out what I wanted to keep. She's done hanging the family heirloom decor. Thinking about it, I felt renewed sadness for the loss of my Box.
And I remembered what my mom had always taught me: That God knows where everything is. And I prayed.
Dear God, find my ornaments.
It was so trivial. Such a shot-in-the-dark prayer. But maybe, maybe, I thought. Maybe some landlord would find the box in lost-and-found and remember me. Maybe some friend would call out of the blue. Maybe my dad would have them, afterall.
Maybe. Just maybe.
Dear Lord, I hoped, you know where they are. Can I have them again?
Last night, my mom and I pulled out Christmas memories, one-by-one, from her plastic tub. We opened each box and told the story of the candle stick, or centerpiece, or snow globe, to TJ. Who gave it to us. My favorite memory of it. What happened to the snowman's pipe. I set aside the ones I was the most found of to bring out for my own son this year.
About halfway down the box, I had a glimmer of hope. I lifted a small box out. Then another. And one more. And there was the edge ... a gray, square box. No. I thought. No way.
My shoebox. My ornaments.
Savannah's Ornaments was scrawled across the bottom in my 8-year-old handwriting. I lifted the lid, and they were there:
Two teddy bears on a bench. Clay Savannah in Junior Uniform. Clay Savannah in Raft. Bear at piano. A white reindeer. My Communion Cup Birdfeeder. A styrofoam egg covered with red circles to be a Santa Claus.
My ornaments. My memories. My childhood.
I sat on the couch and cried, taking each out, unwrapping, remembering. "You'll never get the box closed if you take them all out," my mother warned.
And I didn't care. I don't want that box closed ever again. I want it out. I want them all lined up on a shelf and displayed, a constant reminder that God cares.
God cares. He cares about your lost things -- your lost keys, your lost socks, your lost memories. My lost ornamnets.
God cares because he is the God of the Lost. He is the God who leaves the 99 and seeks the 1 sheep that wandered away. He is the God who welcomes back the lost son.
The thing I forget about that, is I think God has to come find me when I am lost. But like my ornaments, that's not true. God always knows where you are. He will never lose sight of you, even if you lose sight of Him.
And when you come home, He lovingly picks you up, holds you. Looks at you. And remembers you: This is my child. I made her on July 10, 1985. I remember the year she made Junior in Girl Scouts. I remember when she learned to canoe. I was with her when she got married. I was with her when she gave birth to her son. I am with her today. I remember when she thought she was lost.
I remember when she came home.
And He cries a little at his found You.
"What man among you having a hundred sheep and losing one of them would not leave the ninety-nine in the desert and go after the lost one until he finds it? 5And when he does find it, he sets it on his shoulders with great joy 6and, upon his arrival home, he calls together his friends and neighbors and says to them, ‘Rejoice with me because I have found my lost sheep.’ 7I tell you, in just the same way there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who have no need of repentance." Luke 15:4-7
Saturday, October 12, 2013
My 18-pound heart
In the 5 seconds my back is turned
you are across the room,
and, cord in hand, you pull ... the four-foot fan comes
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
over you.
Your tears are no match for mine
as I try to get my heart to start beating again.
For a second, everything was over.
But here you are
OK.
Missed by mere centimeters.
And in 5 more seconds, it is forgotten
and you are crawling onward --
reaching for the next life-ending adventure.
My heart is 18 pounds,
on all fours.
Pulling itself up on the furniture.
Chasing the cat.
Exposed to the world.
you are across the room,
and, cord in hand, you pull ... the four-foot fan comes
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
over you.
Your tears are no match for mine
as I try to get my heart to start beating again.
For a second, everything was over.
But here you are
OK.
Missed by mere centimeters.
And in 5 more seconds, it is forgotten
and you are crawling onward --
reaching for the next life-ending adventure.
My heart is 18 pounds,
on all fours.
Pulling itself up on the furniture.
Chasing the cat.
Exposed to the world.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
The lap nap
My 3 1/2-month-old son won't nap. This behavior began about month 2 of his as-of-yet-brief life. He starts to cry when Mommy or Daddy move him into a napping position and protests it with all his little heart.
But he needs to nap. Lord knows, he needs to nap. Without it, after two or so hours of alertness and play time, he turns into a little, well, whiny baby. He needs those glorious minutes of downtime to reboot his system.
But he doesn't want them.
So we cuddle, we sing, we dance, we shush. We bounce, we walk. We rock. We dedicate 30 to 45 minutes to lull him into a naplike state, ease him gently into his crib ... and those little eyeballs pop open, ready to play.
And we start again.
Usually, he naps for 20 to 30 minutes and then decides he's done. So yes, usually the art of achieving the nap takes longer than the nap itself.
I cave in to the lap nap.
That's right: My baby is in my arms or laying on a Boppy across my lap for most of his naps. I can sometimes get an hour or more out of him this way.
And this is terrible, just terrible. The baby books are perfectly clear: He needs to go down in his crib, sleepy but alert. He needs to talk himself to sleep. He needs to cry it out. He needs to learn how. I am enabling bad nap behavior for years to come. I will have a toddler on my hands in two years that won't nap unless momma is with him.
After a few weeks of beating myself up about this I have made a command decision: I don't care.
This afternoon, my son was nestled on my shoulder, one tiny hand clutching the collar of my shirt, snoring lightly. I relaxed on the couch and read a magazine I've been gazing longingly at since it came in the mail a month ago. TJ read a book on the other end.
It was perfect.
While Clark napped, the laundry didn't get done. The dishes didn't get washed. His bottles didn't get scrubbed and sterilized. I didn't clean the bathroom or balance the checkbook. I didn't run an errand to the UPS store to mail a box.
My son's lap-naps are the first moments of forced non-productivity I've ever had in my life. I am a busy woman, a get-up-and-go kinda gal. I have very little idle time in my day. Even time spent watching TV is usually multi-tasked -- I'm checking email or making dinner or entertaining the baby.
But for an hour or so once or twice a day, now I do nothing. I nap too, sometimes. Or I read. Or I quietly watch Netflix. And my son purrs, almost like a kitten, over my arm. And my brain unwinds over this perfect little creation.
Am I setting myself (and my son) up for nap failure in the future? I doubt it. He's slept through the night since he was 2 months old. He goes down without a fight and can soothe himself back to sleep. We know he can do it.
But, like his momma, he is an active little guy who doesn't want to waste time during those precious daylight hours with nonsense like napping. He has fingers to eat, toes to explore, rattles to shake. Body parts to master. And if he ends up being 2 and wants to nap with Momma, that's just fine. Momma wants to nap with him, too.
In the meantime, I will take every perfect, soft, sweet, cuddly moment I can get.
And I'm not going to feel bad about it.
But he needs to nap. Lord knows, he needs to nap. Without it, after two or so hours of alertness and play time, he turns into a little, well, whiny baby. He needs those glorious minutes of downtime to reboot his system.
But he doesn't want them.
So we cuddle, we sing, we dance, we shush. We bounce, we walk. We rock. We dedicate 30 to 45 minutes to lull him into a naplike state, ease him gently into his crib ... and those little eyeballs pop open, ready to play.
And we start again.
Usually, he naps for 20 to 30 minutes and then decides he's done. So yes, usually the art of achieving the nap takes longer than the nap itself.
I cave in to the lap nap.
That's right: My baby is in my arms or laying on a Boppy across my lap for most of his naps. I can sometimes get an hour or more out of him this way.
And this is terrible, just terrible. The baby books are perfectly clear: He needs to go down in his crib, sleepy but alert. He needs to talk himself to sleep. He needs to cry it out. He needs to learn how. I am enabling bad nap behavior for years to come. I will have a toddler on my hands in two years that won't nap unless momma is with him.
After a few weeks of beating myself up about this I have made a command decision: I don't care.
This afternoon, my son was nestled on my shoulder, one tiny hand clutching the collar of my shirt, snoring lightly. I relaxed on the couch and read a magazine I've been gazing longingly at since it came in the mail a month ago. TJ read a book on the other end.
It was perfect.
While Clark napped, the laundry didn't get done. The dishes didn't get washed. His bottles didn't get scrubbed and sterilized. I didn't clean the bathroom or balance the checkbook. I didn't run an errand to the UPS store to mail a box.
My son's lap-naps are the first moments of forced non-productivity I've ever had in my life. I am a busy woman, a get-up-and-go kinda gal. I have very little idle time in my day. Even time spent watching TV is usually multi-tasked -- I'm checking email or making dinner or entertaining the baby.
But for an hour or so once or twice a day, now I do nothing. I nap too, sometimes. Or I read. Or I quietly watch Netflix. And my son purrs, almost like a kitten, over my arm. And my brain unwinds over this perfect little creation.
Am I setting myself (and my son) up for nap failure in the future? I doubt it. He's slept through the night since he was 2 months old. He goes down without a fight and can soothe himself back to sleep. We know he can do it.
But, like his momma, he is an active little guy who doesn't want to waste time during those precious daylight hours with nonsense like napping. He has fingers to eat, toes to explore, rattles to shake. Body parts to master. And if he ends up being 2 and wants to nap with Momma, that's just fine. Momma wants to nap with him, too.
In the meantime, I will take every perfect, soft, sweet, cuddly moment I can get.
And I'm not going to feel bad about it.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
On being a mom
I knew having a baby would be hard. Everyone knows that. Everyone tells you that.The thing I didn't know -- and that no parent can possibly convey -- is how impossibly, heart-breakingly, mind-numbingly hard it is.
Today I sat at my desk nearly in tears while my husband texted me about the epic meltdown my son was having. He went five hours without napping, and all efforts to end the streak were coming to naught.
My husband is a wonderful, loving, capable father. I am blessed that he is able to be home with our son and that we don't have to use daycare. But he's daddy. And sometimes, babies need mommy.
For one thing, mommy's got The Boobs. And I am quite liberal with mine, offering them at every whimper as a first line of defense against tears. It wasn't until my mother-in-law visited in Clark's first weeks that it really hit me that there are non-boob ways to soothe a baby. So we're still working that.
I went home for dinner an hour and a half early tonight to try to ease the situation. Clark was quite satisfied to see the arrival of The Boobs, quieted down enough to eat, have a bath, and put his jammies on before resuming The Meltdown. Four songs into Queen's Greatest Hits later, he was out for the night.
Today I sat at my desk nearly in tears while my husband texted me about the epic meltdown my son was having. He went five hours without napping, and all efforts to end the streak were coming to naught.
My husband is a wonderful, loving, capable father. I am blessed that he is able to be home with our son and that we don't have to use daycare. But he's daddy. And sometimes, babies need mommy.
For one thing, mommy's got The Boobs. And I am quite liberal with mine, offering them at every whimper as a first line of defense against tears. It wasn't until my mother-in-law visited in Clark's first weeks that it really hit me that there are non-boob ways to soothe a baby. So we're still working that.
I went home for dinner an hour and a half early tonight to try to ease the situation. Clark was quite satisfied to see the arrival of The Boobs, quieted down enough to eat, have a bath, and put his jammies on before resuming The Meltdown. Four songs into Queen's Greatest Hits later, he was out for the night.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
The Big Entrance
A week ago Monday, I woke up sick. I felt awful. It was the grease-bomb of an Arby's sandwich and potato wedges I'd eaten for dinner the night before, I was sure. Maybe that horseradish-as-means-to-induce-labor idea wasn't so great. I spent the whole day on the couch, or rolling around on my exer-ball, cursing my back pain and running to the bathroom every five seconds.
By my 9:45 a.m. Tuesday doctor's appointments, I'd decided: This better be labor, or I'm going to go insane. When the nurse called us from the waiting room she looked at my face and said, "Are you having a contraction?"
I said, "I certainly hope so."
The problem was, they weren't what I'd been promised. No steadily increasing waves of pain, no 90-seconds counts. No timing from the beginning of one to the beginning of the next. No feeling my abdomen get tighter while my body worked on opening up my cervix. All I knew was that my back hurt excrutiatingly bad and it didn't end.
The doctor recommended I go home and sit in the tub for a while, then maybe go to the hospital later in the day if I felt ready. I was 3 cm dilated, so she said "Maybe the baby will come today."
On the drive home, we ditched that plan completely and went straight to the hospital. An hour after my doctor's check, I was 4 cm. But my doctor was in a delivery, and didn't want to admit me quite yet. So we spent an hour walking the hallways, waiting. Because they wouldn't officially admit me, I couldn't yet use all the birthing stuff we'd learned about in class and planned on: No labor ball, no spa therapy tub. Just walking the hallways, waiting.
By my 9:45 a.m. Tuesday doctor's appointments, I'd decided: This better be labor, or I'm going to go insane. When the nurse called us from the waiting room she looked at my face and said, "Are you having a contraction?"
I said, "I certainly hope so."
The problem was, they weren't what I'd been promised. No steadily increasing waves of pain, no 90-seconds counts. No timing from the beginning of one to the beginning of the next. No feeling my abdomen get tighter while my body worked on opening up my cervix. All I knew was that my back hurt excrutiatingly bad and it didn't end.
The doctor recommended I go home and sit in the tub for a while, then maybe go to the hospital later in the day if I felt ready. I was 3 cm dilated, so she said "Maybe the baby will come today."
On the drive home, we ditched that plan completely and went straight to the hospital. An hour after my doctor's check, I was 4 cm. But my doctor was in a delivery, and didn't want to admit me quite yet. So we spent an hour walking the hallways, waiting. Because they wouldn't officially admit me, I couldn't yet use all the birthing stuff we'd learned about in class and planned on: No labor ball, no spa therapy tub. Just walking the hallways, waiting.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
With a grain of salt
Today is my due date, and my child doesn't really seem to have a whole lot of intention of making his entrance into the world in anything like a timely fashion.
Over the last few weeks, I have been given a lot of advice about how to speed things up down there or what to do next ... and much of it, including advice given to me by my doctor and her various staff, contradicts each other.
Here's just a sampling:
Upon seeing how swollen my feet are, my doctor says: "Stop eating salt."
Upon being asked for tips to get labor moving, she says: "Eat spicy food."
I don't know about you, but no-sodium spicy foods are in pretty short supply where I live.
Upon hearing my concerns about soreness and pain "downstairs," doc's assistance: "Don't have any more sex."
No. 1 piece of advice people love to give to speed up labor: "Have sex." (including my doc, a week after the above).
And more fun ones:
Rest while you can.
Stay active.
Do jumping jacks.
Don't overexert yourself.
Clean the house.
Learn to let the housework go.
Go for long walks.
Keep your feet elevated.
Eat healthy.
Your pregnant, don't worry about your diet.
Take time pre-baby to relax at home.
Keep going to work to stay busy.
Take this herb or that herb or drink blahblah ... "but I did all of that and it didn't actually work." (I don't understand women's desires to perpetuate bring-on-the-labor myths they tried their ownselves that didn't actually work.)
Of course, my very favorite is "Don't do anything. He'll come when he's ready."
Which is usually followed by horror at the idea that if he doesn't come by a certain point, my doctor will induce me, or "Get that baby out of there! We can't wait to meet him."
Over the last few weeks, I have been given a lot of advice about how to speed things up down there or what to do next ... and much of it, including advice given to me by my doctor and her various staff, contradicts each other.
Here's just a sampling:
Upon seeing how swollen my feet are, my doctor says: "Stop eating salt."
Upon being asked for tips to get labor moving, she says: "Eat spicy food."
I don't know about you, but no-sodium spicy foods are in pretty short supply where I live.
Upon hearing my concerns about soreness and pain "downstairs," doc's assistance: "Don't have any more sex."
No. 1 piece of advice people love to give to speed up labor: "Have sex." (including my doc, a week after the above).
And more fun ones:
Rest while you can.
Stay active.
Do jumping jacks.
Don't overexert yourself.
Clean the house.
Learn to let the housework go.
Go for long walks.
Keep your feet elevated.
Eat healthy.
Your pregnant, don't worry about your diet.
Take time pre-baby to relax at home.
Keep going to work to stay busy.
Take this herb or that herb or drink blahblah ... "but I did all of that and it didn't actually work." (I don't understand women's desires to perpetuate bring-on-the-labor myths they tried their ownselves that didn't actually work.)
Of course, my very favorite is "Don't do anything. He'll come when he's ready."
Which is usually followed by horror at the idea that if he doesn't come by a certain point, my doctor will induce me, or "Get that baby out of there! We can't wait to meet him."
Monday, February 11, 2013
Not my will ..
For the past year, and earnestly for the past 6 monthsish, we've been praying for God to bring a new job for TJ. We knew that God had brought the customer service job he had, just when we needed it. But we felt the time had come for something else. So we prayed. And prayed.
And prayed. And prayed.
And Teej had interviews, got his hopes up, got his dreams dashed, kept going. Kept applying. Kept interviewing. Kept getting more and more frustrated at his dead-end service position. And we felt like each job he applied for was better than the last, and we kept waiting, knowing -- KNOWING -- that God was bringing something great.
And so we prayed and prayed.
And prayed. And prayed.
And Teej had interviews, got his hopes up, got his dreams dashed, kept going. Kept applying. Kept interviewing. Kept getting more and more frustrated at his dead-end service position. And we felt like each job he applied for was better than the last, and we kept waiting, knowing -- KNOWING -- that God was bringing something great.
And so we prayed and prayed.
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