New Blog

Every so often, I do this.

Obviously, I didn't keep up with this blog. It makes me sad because now it is littered with promises like broken and empty bottles ("I will be here, every Tuesday, for the rest of my life.")

I want to be perfect, and I want to do everything I say I will do. But I can't make promises any more because I can't promise that I will keep a promise. I liked the idea of writing a sort of chronicle of my life and thoughts, one post a week, at least. I thought I'd be 80, in a wheelchair, writing my blog post on a Tuesday. But I'm not even 30, and I'm quitting already.

There is just one thing I don't regret about abandoning this blog: I was never completely satisfied with the domain. "I write on Tuesday." Shouldn't it be "I write on Tuesdays", or maybe, "I write every Tuesday"?

My new writing day is Saturday. I have two jobs now, so I will be very busy. But I'll make time for this. Maybe not every Saturday... but most. Because writing gives me joy. I'll do it whether you come to see it or not. I'll do it (sometimes- no promises) whether I feel like it or not, whether I feel I have anything good to say, or not.

springsinscorchedplaces.blogspot.com

Love

I've been thinking a lot, maybe partly because of a crumpled-up-in-the-trash-can-post I wrote earlier today, and partly because of some other blog posts I read that I hope will never get thrown away. By two women who I think know something about it. This word everybody keeps saying.

Sometimes I've thought that love is a feeling. It's the happiness that spread through me like the warmth of hot chocolate when I sat with my family around a table and we played the story game and howled with laughter. It's the crazy things I did with my sisters, rushing our faces at a mirror to scare ourselves and telling each other everything we thought about everything. It's lying on my little brother's bed discussing books on a Sunday afternoon. It's the feeling that these people will always accept me and they'll stick with me no matter what- because they're my family.

It's the feeling I get when I realize that life is short, and someone just took a piece of their short little life and wrote my name on it with a permanent marker and gave me that time, freely. It's being valued.

But love is not a feeling. Jesus didn't feel a warm little burst of happiness for us. He died a horrible death for us.

And so I think that I don't love people.

If I feel like someone has nothing to offer me- no way to relate to me, no way to make me laugh or feel better- if they annoy me, fill me with tension 24/7, or want something more out of our friendship than I want, I don't talk to them.

While I can be a good friend and willingly spend time and money on my friends (the people I like who like me), try to take care of their feelings, give them advice, etc... when it comes down to it, it's basically about me and the way it makes me feel.

This realization and the thought that everyone else might possibly be the same way... and just not honest enough to admit it... is very, very depressing to me.

I realize that I don't know the first thing about loving people. I don't understand unconditional love. I don't understand God's love. These things are foreign to me. I have empathy, but that's not the same as sacrificial, unconditional love.

I just went on a missions trip. I hugged little kids and played with them and they smiled at me and it made me feel good. See what I mean? That's not love.

Everybody talks about love. I wonder if they, too, ever wonder what they mean by it. We love the people who make us laugh and the people who make us feel good. We want to make people laugh and make them feel good so that we, too, will be loved. It's round trip selfishness.

I asked myself, is it possible for humans to love purely? To love without ANY ulterior motives such as looking good to people watching, or feeling better about themselves? To love people when it doesn't benefit them in ANY tangible or intangible way?

I think that it is possible, but it is not possible without God.

There are some people on here who I thought understood me better than anyone else. They exist in Myers Briggs personality groups. And the secular groups tell me that I don't have to love everyone, because I've got to take care of myself and I shouldn't have to bother with small talk and "fake" "dramatic" "manipulative" people. And the Christian groups tell me that they can relate, that it's the way we all are, and they understand.

But I forgot that Someone understands me better than Myers Briggs because He made me. And He commanded me to love- to love not just a few people, but everyone.

It has always bothered me when I didn't like someone. I have thought, well, I'm better than other people because of the REASONS for my dislike. I don't judge people based on their looks or their possessions but on their personalities and actions. Now I know why it bothered me. I may have a negative feeling toward someone else that I can't help, but regardless of the reason, it is wrong to be cold and distant to anyone.

I've heard that love is not a feeling, it's a choice. That's kind of a starting point. I'm going to find out as much about it as God is willing to show me and love as many people as God puts into my life, no matter how they act, or how they annoy, boss, ignore, discount, reprimand, misrepresent, or say rude things to me. Because my life IS so short, and it's probably at least one-third over. All I can think right now is, what a terrible waste. And all I can do now is to love people the rest of the time I have.

It is very hard for me because there are some people I just can't stand. You know who you are. (Kidding. Completely kidding).

I'm tempted to dwell on their actions and words instead of dwelling on JESUS'S actions and words. I also have a barrier of fear, among other things.

So please pray for me to grow in this love thing everyone is talking about, to somehow tap into unconditional sacrificial love under years and years of cobwebs, dust and rust, and I'm just going to stop analyzing motives and love and my personality, and just get out there and start talking to people I don't normally talk to, and pray for help because I NEED IT. So I'm going to go to work tomorrow and get started with the little bit I already know. And I almost said "and we'll see how it goes" but that's exactly what I would do IF love was a feeling.

Love is not a feeling. God is love.

I Am An American

I went to an island far away. A place where the trees are gardens suspended in the air. The waves gently polish the sand.

Trucks and motorcycles veer around each other, horns blaring. People have darker faces, brighter smiles. They don't speak my language.

 

We showed a Voice of the Martyrs cartoon. Adults and children stared at the screen, riveted.

 

The girls play clapping games. The boys climb trees.

 

I came back to a country glutted with entertainment and materialism.

 

We claim causes that don't matter. Defend the people who are doing just fine.

 

We're the priest and the Levite and we look the other way, while the people living far away suffer and die.

 

We play with our ipods and we refuse to consider the people who don't get to eat today.

We kill babies and put a transgender man on a pedestal for no other reason. 

 

I don't love this about America.

 

But I do love America.

 

Every day, people tell me that I shouldn't love my country. In person, on the internet, on TV. They tell me that we are the problem, the busybody sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. They tell me that we only cause harm in the world.

 

That we should hang our heads and reluctantly mumble that yeah, we're Americans.

It seems like many younger people really think they're clever for believing that America is the bad guy of the world. 

 

Politicians have lied, they've made mistakes. They've gotten involved for all the wrong reasons. I know this.

 

But I look back at my country's past and I see, behind all of the greedy, selfish, and deceitful men, a powerful army of the strong and honorable and selfless.  Leaders who got involved because they actually cared about the oppressed. Soldiers who left their families to fight for people they'd never even met. People who spoke up for the things they believed at the cost of their jobs and reputations. Architects and artists and writers and musicians who built up our culture, piece by piece, and bolstered it and strengthened it, so that we could enjoy their labor without a second thought.

 

Imagine giving your entire life to a light bulb, a book, a building, an album. 

Americans sacrificed for Americans so that we could come together and be one. E pluribus unum. So many backgrounds, religions, ethnicities, opinions, but we share so much too. We make each other better. 

 

How can you be ashamed of the land where you were born, where you were blessed with all of this, the blood and the sweat and the tears of millions? Where you hold education and culture and health and opportunity in your hands for so long that you barely even realize you're doing it anymore?

 

I visited an island rich in color.

 

But my country is rich as well.

 

And I've seen so much of it.

 

I've looked at the lights of a city when they seemed as countless as the stars in the sky. And every single light was put in place by a person. Every window of every building was carefully constructed. I've been in art museums and looked at paintings, and every painting was a tiny piece of a person's life that I got to view without effort or cost. I've passed fields where farmers toiled so that I could buy corn on the cob wrapped up in plastic at Walmart. I've seen stores and bought products that were the life work of entrepreneurs. I've pulled books off a shelf of the library and read them. And every page of every book  was typed up, words carefully selected and edited and edited again.

 

I've looked at waterfalls crashing down so that I could feel their power throughout my body. I've stood at the edge of the vast expanse that is the Grand Canyon and I've driven on a bridge over a wrinkled-up shining river. I've walked on paths where wildflowers bloom and I've stared out the windows of a Greyhound bus in a desert that I thought would never end.

 

I've sat in a classroom where I spent years of my life learning, learning, learning. Listening and filling in blanks and working calculus problems. I played games on computers and I wrote poems. I practiced piano. I had time to do these things, because I didn't have to support my family when I was eight years old.

 

And I can say the things that I think on this blog, and I get to vote and go to church and use the Internet. And other people burn the flag of my country and they lobby for the things that they want and they tell lies and they slander policemen. We do these things because we are free. We are free.

 

I hold this richness in my hands, and now I can give it away. One day I will read stories to Haitian children, because I sat in a clean, safe American classroom and I learned how to read. I will teach them to count money because my mom had time and she drilled me with addition and subtraction facts. I will teach them about the world because I've had time and money to travel and I've read books. I will give to people less fortunate than me and I'll accept them as they are and love them because I live in a country where these things have always been valued.

 

America is my past, and it is giving me my future.

 

I don't know what my life would be like if America did not exist. It would certainly be less wonderful in many ways.

When you love your family, you don't make sure nobody thinks that you're saying you had a special family better than other families. You talk about the positive things, the things you are thankful for.

I am proud to be an American. I am thankful for America. For its history, its beauty. For the opportunities it has given me.

I disagree that it is the bad guy of the world. I believe that it is still a great country and a kind one. And I disagree that we should focus on recent negative changes rather than on the blessings we've enjoyed as Americans. Of course, we desire and work for continued freedom. But you and I... we have nothing to complain about. We have no reason to be ashamed of our country. It is amazing. 

Poverty Photograph

Poverty. We catch a glimpse of it sometimes. It's like a photograph, or a landscape seen from a train window. We never really get close. Maybe someone else was there, and they distorted it with their camera lens and limited it with the zoom function. Maybe we were there, but we were shielded from it by a thick pane of glass, and our train whizzed through it so quickly. And anyway, we were sleeping. (The chairs were more comfortable than we expected, and we ate too much for dinner).

We have music, technology, a gym! Department stores, Walmart. We pack a lunch, drive in our air conditioned cars to our air conditioned jobs. We have enough to worry about keeping up with our stuff. Checking our notifications and updating our apps. Creating a playlist, creating a shopping list. Exactly when would we have time to think about poverty?

This week, I've had time.

I've been on a mission trip that was like a train ride. Relaxing and fun at times. We stayed in a ritzy hotel in Sosua. Played in the pool, walked on the sand, ate buffet style at every meal. Drank unlimited smoothies and pineapple juice.

But some Godly men and women also took us by the hand and led us out of the train. Right up to poverty to stare at it and at the sweet people who are mired in it. They are us. Born at a different time and in a different place. That's all.

Their homes consist of one or two rooms, an aluminum roof, maybe a couple of chairs and a makeshift bed- if they're lucky. That's middle class, here.

I went to a dump and swatted flies from my face. I looked into the eyes of people who live in mounds of trash and smoking ash. They sleep in the middle of a circle of used tires, dig through piles of vile garbage in search of plastic bottles that they can sell for just a few pesos. It's a dry, charred existence that most of us cannot even begin to understand.

They were famished, and so thirsty. I gave a cup of water to two young boys digging in the middle of the fumes, little boys who shouldn't have been there. I wondered if they ever heard any words of affirmation. I told them that they were good workers, "trabajadores" and they nodded in acknowledgment.

I picked a up little girl in my arms and wondered how long she'd have to live. I doubted that it would be long. I told her that she was beautiful and that God loved her very much. Daniel, one of the youth pastors for the ministry Cups of Cold Water, asked her in Spanish if she had a smile for me. She came up with a lovely one, and we took a picture. I don't remember her name, but I will never forget her.

Today we went to Munoz, a village of Haitian refugees that was ravaged by a fire. The entire middle section of the village is charred, covered in ashes and trash, with broken stone structures protruding from it. They were houses, once.

The villagers lined up to receive cups of hot soup. As we walked through the village to pass out more, I noticed that many of them refused to take the soup. I realized that they had probably already been through the line and didn't want to take more than one cup, although it would have been easy to do. I felt that they were looking out for each other, making sure that everyone was fed.

The kids were funny and sweet. Like kids everywhere. They teased each other, poked each other, laughed. Eventually, four girls ages 12-14 came up to me and hung onto me throughout the night, while we were talking to the villagers and afterwards, when we played a movie for them. I felt that I didn't have enough arms.

They asked me my name, I asked them theirs. Francesca, Kimberly, Mariela and Maria. When they told me their names, I said, "No! PRINCESA Francesca!" (Giggles). "I am not a princess, I'm a girl!" I kept calling them princesa. It was fun, and may have built them up in a small way. But most importantly, I had the chance to tell these girls that they are precious to God. It made me cry just to think about the way they have already suffered, and the suffering they will endure in the future. The Dominican Republic is not friendly to Haitians. In fact, in a movement that I saw compared to the Holocaust in a newspaper today, Haitian refugees will be deported back to Haiti soon. Racism is strong here; not the assumed racism of Americans who are eager to see it in every tone and expression, but true discrimination against people with darker skin. A civil war may even result. I love these people, and I love these girls. But I will have to get back into that train. I'll have to go back to my comfortable American life, and leave them to their fate, because there is nothing I can do. Beyond giving a cup of soup and a few hugs, there is nothing. And that realization is breaking my heart.

First Impressions

I came to the Dominican Republic with a jolt, cheers erupting from Dominican men as the plane's wheels hit the runway. Startled from sleep, I thought about feeling annoyed, but I could only laugh as the men cheered again and again. After all, they were demonstrating their love for their country- something Americans rarely do. And, I'd finally arrived.

We rode to our destination in a creaky open truck with a peaked metal roof. My first impressions were of the smoky grey sky and spindly thin palm trees with shaggy branches. I could smell smoke and manure. Eventually the breeze and the steady rumble of the truck almost lulled me to sleep.

The buildings were run down, like ones I have seen in the poorest of American neighborhoods. Some were simply mismatched materials piled in a building shape. Businesses had crude awnings and hand painted signs, many with a single bright bulb underneath. When I changed places with Will, I hung out the back of the truck a little and watched them receding into blackness, the taillights casting a rosy glow on the pavement under us. We passed police cars and trucks with red and blue lights flashing, even more brilliant than the lights of American police cars.

I saw a building with a grass roof and thought of the mansion I saw flying into New York City, with its circular driveway and pool.

The road's unevenness jerked us from our seats. The wind whipped our hair around in our faces. We were passing through a river of moving air.

I noticed that the sky was glittering, stars that I couldn't always see in my street-lamp-lit world. Signs proclaimed the names of political candidates with colorful cartoonish letterings and photos imposed on solid backgrounds.

It was 4:30 A.M. We passed a Dominican man bicycling on the highway. Others congregated at a food stand.

My first impression of the Dominican was that it was rough and crude, and that it was beautiful.

In Which I Become An Old Testament Scholar (Oh Yeah, There's an Old Testament Too)

Apart from the book of Proverbs, my relationship with the Old Testament has been like my relationship with a great aunt in North Dakota. I don't have a great aunt in North Dakota, but if I did. She would be the Old Testament, and I would be me. Just doing my thing over here in South Carolina, blissfully unaware, but asking who that lady was when we all got together every third Christmas.

Before you judge me for comparing the Old Testament to a great aunt, think about the fact that the Bible gets compared to lots of things, mostly love letters from beloved ones that you wouldn't just shove into a closet without reading. Is a love letter a better analogy for the Bible than a great aunt? Yes. It is. Do I have to come up with analogies comparable to the analogies that preachers come up with? No. I don't. They're preachers, and I'm just a person. Just a person scribbling on a blog writing everything that comes into my silly head, and that's why you've stopped reading by now, because no one would waste their precious time reading this no one would NO ONEEEEE.

However, I would like to tell the survivors of my last paragraph that I'm working on something that WILL be worth reading!

My first novel.

TA-DA!

Actually, I estimate that it will take me a year to write, AT LEAST, probably several years, MOST LIKELY. But I've been plotting all day and it is finally under way, and I'm very excited!

The great thing about writing this novel (which will be sort of suspenseful Biblical fiction) is that it is MAKING me delve into the Old Testament. It's going to be set in David's time, and it will specifically be about Mephibosheth's son, Mica. The Bible tells us one thing about Mica. Here it is.

2 Samuel 9:12 And Mephibosheth had a young son, whose name was Mica.

AAAAH!! I love it!! Basically this gives me COMPLETE LEEWAY to create Mica and his entire story! Of course, there are several Biblical stories surrounding Mica, who is closely tied to his father Mephibosheth, as well as to Jonathan (his grandfather) and to King David. Fascinating stories, I might add. I read commentaries on them until 2 AM last night. Then I got up late to go to work. That's bad. I can see that writing a novel is going to take all kinds of 1.Planning 2. Discipline 3. Self-control.

And, prayer. Because as elated as I sound- and I am- there's no way I can do this on my own. I need help with ideas, research, writing, and certainly any success in getting my book published. I want to write a book that will draw my readers in with an intriguing story, and make them realize that David was real- that the people in the Bible were real. They had personalities, emotions, and senses of humor (or not) just like we do. They struggled and made mistakes and chose to follow God (or not). I want to make the time period come alive for everyone reading it- to be as accurate as I possibly can- and most of all to point people to God, who is the same today as He was in David's day!

I'm not exactly sure why I'm telling you about all of this already. It probably would have been wiser to keep it hush-hush until I actually wrote it and got it published- if I did- and THEN to talk about it. But, I usually write about the things that I'm thinking about, and I’M THINKING ABOUT THIS. It's actually  been in the back of my mind for a loooooong time. Because when people write Biblical fiction, they usually write stories set in Jesus' day. And I think it would be really unique and educational- for me at least- and A LOT OF FUN to delve into the ancient history of Israel and write a book set in it (sneakily teaching people about it in the middle of a fascinating- I hope- fictional story!).

Right now I'm trying to imagine Mica and get to know him, in a sense. I'll share some of my brainstorming with you. I haven't gotten very far in answering these questions, and I'm going to have to read EVERYTHING I can get my hands on about this time period and about David's life.

Things I already know: He's a boy with a prosperous, good-hearted, humble, lame father (Mephibosheth) who has the king's protection. He eats at the king's table, deals with the reality of a famine and watches as his father's cousins die for the sins of their grandfather (Mica's great-grandfather) Saul. He contends with jealousy from one of Ziba's sons (fictional). He deals with conflict between Ziba and his father.

Questions I need to answer:

What's his objective?

Is he learning to trust in God?

What is he learning to do for a living? Does he take his father's prosperity (from David's hand) for granted? What about when his father loses his possessions to Ziba?

What is his personality like? Is he introverted or extroverted? What does he care about?

How is he being educated?

What will the main conflict of his story be?

What are his goals before and after the conflict? How is his life disturbed?

How old is he, what about marriage?

What are the rules of his society/ home? Does he try to challenge the norms of his society?

What does his name mean? What toys did he play with when he was little? What kind of food does he eat? What does his house look like? And all kinds of other details...

Make him funny or make one of his friends funny…

Make EVERYONE in the story interesting and relatable!

Again- I don't know if I should be writing these things on my blog- and I’m sure it's as boring to read all of this as it would be if I'd written Five Ways to Cultivate Cucumbers- but I can't write about anything else on here because I’m not thinking about anything else right now! Like I said, it will be AT LEAST a year before I finish this book- I'm thinking about making one year the goal. But since it requires significant research (maybe even a trip to Israel? Now THAT would be AWESOME), I don't know if a year will be long enough! I thought about writing a different book first, maybe a novel about American kids or Haitian kids, but I JUST CAN'T. This is what I've been feeling passionate about… for a long time… so… this is going to be my first novel!  If you're still reading this… you must be my friend or something to CARE SO MUCH!! Now I'm going to stop talking about it and get to work on it and I'll tell you all about it next year or two or three when I publish it… I hope!… aaaaaaaand you've now MADE IT to

THE END

P.S. Sorry about all of the caps and exclamation points… I wouldn't normally do that to you but… I just can't help it right now!

P.P.S. I'm still going to write on this blog every Tuesday, but I might write short posts because I might be a little… DISTRACTED

And you'll probably say, as Marley and Marley  said in Muppets Christmas Carol: "That was terrible. It was awful. It was….. SHORT. WE LOVED IT!"

P.P.P.S. No promises though. I'm sure this is just my novel writing honeymoon and I'll settle down soon enough. And I'll be back here writing long posts about everything that I'm thinking about, once again.

P.P.P.P.S. What are all the P's for anyway? Am I doing that right? If you know, please comment and tell me below, yes, comment,  in that comment box right down there. Yes, I KNOW, it is TERRIFYINGGGG to comment on such a blog as this. You'd practically be admitting to… READINGGGGG ITTTTT. But if you don't tell me that I'm doing it wrong, I'll keep right on doing it wrong, and the whole world will grind to a screeching halt, and it will be

ALL

YOUR

FAULT.

P.P.P.P.P.S. You can comment about other things too. Blog comments are my love language. Now that you know that, you're feeling extra extra extraly scared to comment, and I don't blame you. It's okay. Don't, if you'd rather not. I will let you stalk my blog quietly like the quiet blog stalker that you are. *Guilt Trip* *Namecalling* Well I'm a liar because I said that it was the end, and it wasn't, so I don't even deserve a blog comment, anyway. *Pity Party*

P.P.P.P.P.P. S. I don't actually care whether you comment or not. *Tough Act*

A-Whole-Bunch-Of-Ps. S. I just noticed that I started this post talking about the Old Testament, which comprises over half of God's sacred, inspired Word, and it has degenerated to THIS. Please come back next week. I will be much more sane and able to communicate much more clearly about much more compelling things. Like I said. I'm in novel writing honeymoon. I'll be back. You'll be back. Because you know that I won't be like this forever. Right? Okay. Good. *Feels Reassured* *Going to Talk to Mica Now*

Sisters

Families are supposed to be together.

Sisters

Mothering Sunday

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-442696/Mothers-Day-women.html

The Moms Who Work the Hardest

On Mother's Day, I want to honor my mom most of all. She works very hard, and she always has. She's amazing. But today I'm writing about some other moms, a group of moms that my own mom has taught me to appreciate by her words and her example.

They're all different ages, from a twenty-year-old devastated by her unborn baby's diagnosis, to a seventy-year-old struggling to care for a toddler in a fifty-year-old's body. They're in all stages of mothering, some changing diapers and some getting adult children ready for fast food jobs. They're assigned tasks that are much harder than the tasks assigned to most moms, and those tasks seem never-ending. They face disappointment and uncertainty about the future. Sometimes they're overwhelmed by despair.

I admire every mom. Motherhood, even more than marriage, means sacrifice. A mom gives up much of her social life for her kids. She can't just go out and have fun in the same way anymore. She's got a helpless, sloppy, wailing ball-and-chain. As her kids grow up and start going to school, she has a little more freedom, but many more errands to run and more places to take them. I used to look at my mom, who has five kids, and wonder how she could be content to live so completely for her family.

But mothers of children with disabilities sacrifice even more. Many of them remain stuck in the hardest stages of child rearing as their children's brains stop developing. When their children make progress, even amazing progress, other people don't understand or celebrate it the way they do. 

I used to play with some of their children. We had five four- and five-year-old babies at the Early Childhood Center in Godfrey, IL, when I was there in 2009. I remember one little girl in particular- her sweet smile, the way she stalked awkwardly around the room. Her hands reached aimlessly out, not purposely picking up a toy like another girl her age would have. Our "babies" were adorable, but we had to constantly guess what they needed. I heard the teacher arguing with the physical therapist, their voices rising. If these women who have been educated for years for this don't know what to do, how could an untrained twenty-year-old know what to do with this child? She'd have to study, learn, worry, make mistakes, get advice, try again.

Mothers of children with disabilities lose their freedom the way every  mother does, only more so- more completely and more permanently. Imagine having a baby for life. For as long as you live. I don't think I  could do it. (Not that every child who has a disability is a baby for life- but some are.)

If your child had physical needs, you'd have to design every trip and vacation to accommodate him. You might have to make special food and schedule repeated doctor visits. 

You'd feel forced out of social gatherings when your child screamed or misbehaved. You'd feel like an outcast after you left. If you didn't leave, you'd face annoyed stares and judgment. 

I see it this way: Everything that's simple for me is a chore for a mom, and everything that's simple for me is a huge struggle for the mom of a child with a disability.

I don't know if any mothers of children with disabilities are even reading this. If you are, I just want to say: Thank you for the happiness you bring into the world. Your child makes us smile and helps us in ways that other children can't. Thank you for putting up with the people who don't understand your struggle. I couldn't take the looks and the comments that you take on a regular basis.

I promise that I will never be annoyed by your child. I'll talk to him or her like I would to anyone else. I'll try to give you a break when I can. I won't tell you to "let me know if there's something I can do for you". I'll ask specific questions, what can I do for you, and I'll do it.

Most of all, I want you to know that God knows. He knows everything- all the extra work, the heartache and worry, the disappointment and the joy that your child brings to you. He knows the way your child makes everything in your life at least four times harder than it should be. He knows the looks people give you when your child is loud in public, and the times you pretend not to notice, but it hurts. He knows if you've lost a friend or two because they just didn't want to share your burden.

He knows that your child's babyhood or toddlerhood or childhood is lasting much longer than most. That it seems like that difficult stage will never end.

He is there. "Underneath are the everlasting arms." He knows, and knowing how hard it is, He wants you to rest. Just rest in His everlasting arms and trust Him that you're going to make it through this. He has a wonderful plan for you and for your child. If no one else tells you this mother's day, I appreciate you and I admire you. Your love makes the world a more beautiful place. Happy Mother's Day.