Memorial Day....

Dear Soldier,

Words tend to fail me at times like this.  Your willingness to serve our country leaves me with a lump in my throat that renders me speechless and paralyzes my fingers so that I can't even express my gratitude in written words.  It's easier for me sometimes to just not think about it, because when I do, my emotions overflow.

I stand in awe of your spouses. And your children.  And your mothers.  And your fathers.  And your friends.  Because they let you go to places that breed affliction and exhaustion and pain just so that my family can continue to complain about mundane things like air conditioners going out and the gallon of milk spoiling in the fridge.  If they are lucky and get to go with you, you cart your families all over the world so that I can stay here in the middle of nowhere complaining that Walmart is 20 minutes away.  Or as is most often the case, your family goes without you for sometimes years at a time, just so that I can stay here in comfort and complain when my husband leaves me with the children for a couple of days to go on a business trip. 

You're underpaid.  And under-appreciated.  And under-noticed.

So today, dear soldier, I want to say Thanks.  Thanks for doing what the rest of us aren't brave enough to do.  For doing the things that the rest of us find easier to sit around and debate; but you decided to get up and do something about.  For putting up with the ridiculousness of us, the ones that you are putting your life on the line for.  For uprooting yourself and your families all in the name of keeping my family free. 

This weekend my family played together.  And we laughed together.  We spent time with friends.  We ate hot dogs and grilled burgers.  We ran up our water bills playing in sprinklers.  And we stood with other Americans just being proud and patriotic and privileged.

And we owe it all to you.  And the soldiers that stood before you.  And the soldiers that will follow you.

Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.

Because these smiles are a result of your allegiance.

Did I mention Thank You?

One more won't hurt.  Thank You.

Love Always and With Gratitude Spilling Over,

Amber in Arkansas

I'm Giving Away....Knee Socks. Just Kidding.

My room was a weird mint green color.

I had bunk beds. And I wore knee socks. And floor length dresses with lace collars. And apparently my mother let me.

I would play dolls and Barbies in that room.  And listen to Solid Gold albums, and sing into a hairbrush in my mirror. 

And at night, I would be tucked in by either my mama or my daddy.  And they would read to me.

I only remember 4 books that were ever read, but I'm positive that there were more.  But these 4 have always stuck.

Little Women.  A classic.  My mama read that one.

And then I can remember Jim-Dad, in his baby blue polyester pants, reading Little Pilgrim's Progress, The Chronicles of Narnia, and Hinds' Feet on High Places.

My dad was a sucker for a good allegory.

And so was I.

Those stories have always walked with me.  Their brilliant symbolic messages told in layman's terms.  So that even children "get" it.

I would imagine walking the roads on the way to the Celestial City with Christian.  Meeting Mr. Tumnus at the lamppost with Lucy.  And skipping through the High Places with the Chief Shepherd. 

They were all so real.  And beautiful.

And then time happened.  And growing up happened.  And stuff happened.  And those books, though still on my shelves, weren't taken out as much.  And weeks that turned into months turned into years. 

Last week, while we were at my parents' a stack of Hinds' Feet books set in the floor of my dad's office.  He quickly reminded me of our times reading those books together many many moons ago.  And the beautiful memories of those stories came flooding back.

Jim-Dad gave us a brand new copy last week and this morning, I sat my children down and cracked the binding.

The walls aren't mint green.  And no one is wearing knee socks.

But my children are going to hear these wonderful allegories of Jesus' love and our salvation journeys.  Not only because of heritage and nostalgia, but because they are beautiful.

-----------------------------

Pilgrim's Progress and the Narnia books are very well known, and if you haven't read them yourself or with your children, please consider doing so.  Hinds' Feet on High Places is not as well-known, but it's story is just as breath-taking. 

The story follows Much-Afraid as she journeys with her two companions, Sorrow and Suffering, to pass through dangers and to overcome her tormenting past to finally reach the High Places and be in union with the loving Shepherd.

Oh...and just to show you how strongly I feel about this particular book, I'm giving away a copy.

All you have to do is leave me a comment telling me if you've read the book or not (I would love to hear what those of you who have read it think!), and you'll be entered to win.  It would make a really great Christmas present, too, if you already have your own copy!  I'll pick the winner on Friday around 3 p.m. central time. 

Houses and Home

I've lived in lots of houses in my life.  Let's see if I can name them all. 

It may take a bit, so if you need to go grab a cup of coffee, go ahead.  I'll wait. 

Go on.

There.  Better?  Okay....

Let's see...first was the house that my parents lived in when I was born.  I don't remember much about it, but I've seen pictures.  And although I remember it being a brick house, I really just remember the mint green dress that my mom was wearing in a picture taken in front of the house.

Then we lived in a The White House.  Not THE White House.  But Our White House.  I know nothing about it except that it was white.  And had a huge yard.  And we made card houses at the dining table.  And my daddy made me a Holly Hobby birthday cake in that house...to which I also had the knee socks, thank you very much.

Then it was on to cabin living in the mountains of Georgia.  Don't be thinking that Jim-Dad turned all mountain-manny on us; it was where we lived for missionary orientation.  And all I remember about that place was that I had barrettes shaped like puppy dogs. 

After Georgia, we lived with my Nanny (Jim-Dad's mama).  And I spent hours and hours playing with her old adding machine and rearranging her eclectic salt-and-pepper collection.

I guess we got tired of living with Nanny while we waited for our time to head overseas (or she got tired of living with us), so we moved out into an old, old, old farmhouse that everyone just called Aunt Roxie's Place.  I remember old wallpaper.  And cows.  And I remember that being place where I watched Star Wars for the very first time.

We left Aunt Roxie's and headed out on the mission field.  First up...a two-story duplex in the capital city of Bangladesh that we shared with our very best missionary friends.  I was bitten by a wicked tropical spider; played many a game of hopscotch; had my hair played with by my ayah; and witnessed the horror that is iodine -- all in that house.

Then it was out to village life.  We moved into our missionary house smack dab in the middle of a bustling village.  The only other white person in that village was a Catholic priest, and my best friends were our servants.  I flew kites with our gardener; watched our cook wring the necks of chickens; and lived through our dog being stolen.  Our home was raided for flowers; my daddy fell off of a ladder; and it flooded...a lot.

Next up....Thailand.  There we lived in the church parsonage of the English speaking church that my daddy had moved to pastor.  The house had stairs, which were such a novelty to me.  I also remember a huge photo mural of palm trees in one of the rooms which still bumfuzzles me.  I remember our yard and the floods and the bugs. 

We only lived there for a few months before it was time to come back to the United States for missionary furlough.  We lived in a house provided for missionaries to use, and I remember thinking we lived in a palace.  It had air conditioning!  A true luxury after spending the majority of my life in sweltering tropical climates with only an occasional fan or two.  I can remember making mud pies in the back yard and getting my first Cabbage Patch Kid.  I remember thinking that I must have died and gone to heaven my first trip to WalMart, and I remember getting to watch things like the Disney Channel and Wheel of Fortune.

After the year of all things American, it was back to our house in Thailand.  We stayed there for several more years, and I can remember my mama being so very sick in that house.  And playing Chinese JumpRope with the rubberband ropes stretched between two dining room chairs.  And listening to contraband Madonna and Bon Jovi tapes that I sneaked out of my sister's room while she was out with her friends. 

One summer during that time, our family came back to the States to settle my sister in for her freshman year of college. Since it was uber-temporary, we set up camp in one of those roadside inn/stay-for-awhile motel places.  I remember watching endless episodes of Little House on the Prairie there.  And Jeopardy.  And Bonanza.

After the summer of motel living, we headed back to Thailand and our house by the church.  I remember heading out of the compound gates and buying a plate of chicken fried rice at the street vendor or heading to the hotel right outside the gates to buy an ice cold bottle of soda.

Then my parents retired from the field.  And it was time to move back to the States.

We lived in a quaint house just down the road from my Nanny, and I can remember it had a drop-down den.  But other than that, I don't remember much.  But I think it is because I spent more time down at my Nanny's house than I did at my own.  We'd watch soap operas and play cards and go shopping at WalMart just for fun.  That was the summer of me and Nanny.  And it was precious.

Then my dad got a new job.  In Missouri.  So we moved.  Again.  And we lived in a house at the end of a street next to woods that I was convinced were haunted.  And we had neighbors that didn't believe in throwing anything away.  And I had a pet rabbit that was nothing short of the spawn of Satan.

We rented that first house in Missouri, and after a couple of years, my parents bought another house in that same town.  I loved that house.  The neighborhood was great; the yard was great; and I loved my room.  It was black and mauve, amazingly countrified, and my bedspread looked like a shower curtain.  Ahh...the 90's. 

I lived in that house until college.  And while at the glorious land of all things purple and gold, I managed to move my way around 3 different dorms.  I had psycho roommates and precious roommates and lots and lots of giggles. 

Then I married the love of my life, and we started out on our own pretending to be grown-ups.  We lived in a teensy tiny little white house that was no bigger than a sequin on a spanglefied stiletto.  There was stuff crammed in every nook and cranny, and we stepped on eachother every time we turned around.  But we were happy.  And in love.  And wouldn't have wished to be anywhere else.

Until we wished we were somewhere else.  And bought our first house together.  And we have been there ever since.  We still have stuff bursting out of every closet, drawer, and shelf, but three precious babies have filled that home with more love than stuff.  I could tell you lots of things about our house, but I won't...because it is just home now.  It's where we're comfortable.  And can be ourselves.  And it's where we just do what we do.

So....Amber, why take us on this long journey through the houses of your history?  I mean, my first cup of coffee has already run out, and I've moved on to my second.

Well, I'll tell you, dear reader.  It's because this week I'm spending the week at home.  Not my home-home.  But at home.

I'm at my parent's house in the beautiful mountains of Arkansas.  This house has never actually been my house, since they bought it and moved here after their retirement just last year.  But this place is home to me.  My mom still takes an hour to get ready every morning.  My dad still snoozes in front of the tv.  The box of Cheerios that are my mother's life-blood are sitting pretty in the cabinet, just like always.  My dad's garage is still packed to the hilt with boxes and boxes of our history and memories.  My mom is still a meticulous housekeeper, and my dad still worries about how much gas I have in my car and if I have cash to get home.

We've moved a lot in my life.  A lot.  A lot.  And even though Kirk and I have made our own house into a home, there is still nothing like coming home to my parents.

Sitting and soaking up their voices.  And their smells.  And their mannerisms. 

And realizing that no matter how old I get, or where I or they move.....

They are....just.....home.

Real Crazy or Crazy Real

I used to think people were crazy.

You know, the people. Who hooked up on the internet.

I had no understanding of how true meaningful relationships could come through a keyboard and a screen. How lives could mesh together through motherboards and circuits. How lives could be changed for the better by a few cables and wires.

But now I get it.

100%. Get it.

Now, don't get me wrong. I totally understand that their are weirdos and creeps out there who take full advantage of innocence and prey on victims who are unsuspecting and naive. I get that. I think that it is heinous and disgusting and fully believe in internet safety and cautiousness and vigilance. But that's not what I'm talking about. No weirdo speak here.

I'm talking about bonds. And friendships. And connections.

And they happen. Every.Single.Day.

Blogging and "social-networking" (I hate that word because it seems so sterile.) used to confuse me. I viewed it as a bunch of housewives who had WAY too much time on their hands, so they used their minutes between donning rubber gloves and scrubbing toilets to voyeuristically peer into other people's personal lives. It seemed like another take on those celebrity gossip magazines....only minus the celebrities. And then to find out that not only did you LOOK into their lives, but you COMMENTED on their lives....well, it just all seemed absurd.

And then I did it. Because I'm a follower and someone told me to. *wink*

And my life is changed.

Forever.

Because now I have a circle of friends that stretches from coast to coast. Friends that pray for me and my family. That know my children by name and can remember details about their small lives. Friends that snort giggle with me and weep with me. We've been through births, and deaths, and job losses, and surgeries. We've been on vacations together, and we've sat in each other's living rooms watching our favorite tv shows together. We discuss dinner plans, the latest coupon finds, and the joy of the flip flops we found on clearance. We do what friends do. We just happen to live states away from each other.

And now I get it.

I completely get it.

Because I know how significant those one-on-one conversations are when you reveal deep dark secrets. Because I understand the power of prayer warriors when your family is the midst of crisis, even if those prayer warriors are hundreds of miles away. Because I know what it is like to want to meet one of your sisters face-to-face because it is just time to wrap your arms around them.

Because it's real.

And I don't think it is fathomable until you experience it. I don't think it makes sense until you walk miles with the women that you are now bonded to for life. I don't think it registers as even possible until you accept that God's plan for relationship isn't bound by skin...that it can exist through wires and cables.

It does sound crazy.

But it's not.

Because it's real.

So very real.

Just like the change for the better that is me. Because of this. Because of these women.


To all of my dear precious friends.........Thank you so much for the gifts of grace, mercy, patience, kindness, and love that you extend to me every day. I truly do see Jesus in you.

One Bestie Ain't Enough For Me

I have had a bunch of best friends in my life.

Let's see if I can name them all.....

E -- first BFF ever. Her daddy was a missionary with my daddy. And we played stuff like hopscotch and hide-n-seek. And we picked on her little brother. And we bugged my big sister.
And we probably had matching knee socks and lace high-neck dresses. Because it was the early '80s. And our moms dressed us weird.

S -- 4th grade. She introduced me to the world of Cabbage Patch and Pound Puppies. And she had the most awesome bike with a basket and streamers. And her house had a pool table. Which was the bomb.

H -- 5th grade. She was from Vietnam and had contraband rock-n-roll music stolen from her older sister's tape deck. She was so cool.

A -- 6th grade. We lived overseas and her dad was in the army. So they got to shop at the American commissary. Which meant they had Campbell's soup at their house. And she ordered her clothes from the JC Penney catalog. Whoa, Nelly.

N -- 6th grade. She was Indian, and she had Nintendo at her house. She also introduced me to the fabulous world of cucumbers in lemon juice. I will be eternally grateful.

R -- 6th grade. She was from Australia, and her family ate Vegimite. Me no likey the Vegimite.

P -- 6th grade. She was from Samoa, and had the coolest hair. And her apartment building had the gnarliest pool in Bangkok. Rockin'.

D -- 7th and 8th grade. Shared everything. Really thought we'd stay friends forever. Now I can't find her. Even on FaceBook....shocking.

J -- highschool. Went to church together. Had poofy bangs together. Slurped Pineapple Dr. Peppers from Sonic together. Wore matching outfits. And spent the night at eachother's houses more times than we stayed at our own.

N -- Sr. Year of highschool. A whole other category of best friend. "Inseparable" isn't even close enough to describe us. And then a boy came between us. A boy I happened to marry. He was worth it, although that whole situation still makes me sad.

R -- college. She "got" me. Still friends. Still love her. Still thankful every single day that God blessed me with her.

(I DID IT!! I named them all!! I'm so proud of me.)

And now I'm a grown-up. And I've traveled through periods in my grown-up life where I've moved between stages of feeling like I had no one except my husband in my corner and periods that I have felt so overwhelmed with various relationships that I felt like I was drowning.

But, I can honestly say, that this period of my life....right now....is the happiest for me. I am surrounded with not only one best girl friend, but many. And I feel so blessed.

I was speaking with one of those besties just this morning about this very thing. About having several different "best" friends. And how that concept is so misunderstood. That if you have a "BEST" friend, then that word in itself denotes that there is only ONE of them. That of all the friends....that ONE is the BEST. But, not so for me.

I have lots of BESTS.

Because they each fill a special place and need for me.

I have a BEST friend that is the most generous and loving person I know. I envy her ability to give and give and give of her time and talents. She has more hospitality and love for people in her pinkie toe than I have in my entire body. She is the only person that I 100% know would genuinely drop everything that she was doing to come and help me if I needed her, and she wouldn't even think twice or whisper ugly things about me under her breath. She is just that amazing. LOVE HER.

I have a BEST friend that is so stinkin' smart. I envy her thinky-ness. And I love her ability to make me think. She challenges me in ways that I have never been challenged before. And I've learned so much from her. I adore spending time with her. Because she is fun. And we both appreciate eachother's need for ice cream. LOVE HER.

I have a BEST friend that is crazy funny. She and I could giggle more together than 593 tweens at a Jonas Brothers concert. We appreciate eachother's clumsiness. And eachother's stupidity. And if I need to laugh, I know exactly where to go. Because she and I only have to look at eachother and we start laughing....whether it be about money or cupcakes or lunges. LOVE HER.

I have a BEST friend that lives in my computer. And as crazy as that seems to people who don't understand this whole blogosphere thing, it is a legitimate and very real relationship. Secrets and confidences and our everyday lives are shared. We can finish eachother's sentences. We eat the same foods. Dress the same way. And sing the same songs. And the only thing frustrating about our friendship is that she is too many miles away from me. LOVE HER.

I have a BEST friend that has been my BEST friend longer than I've ever kept a BEST friend before. She's the most soft-spoken wonderful woman I've ever met. I want to be like her when I grow up, because she is the picture of grace and beauty to me. She and I have seen eachother through some of the darkest valleys that we both have ever walked through, and we have danced with eachother over mountain tops. We "get" eachother because we have done it all together. I trust her to pray for me and my family, and she trusts me to pray for her and hers. Different life stages usually separate people; whereas our differences only tend to bring us closer. LOVE HER.

I have a BEST friend that is super-cliche but actually for real. My sister isn't my best friend because she has to be. She's my best friend because I want her to be. I'm pretty sure we are twins somehow, because we do that whole twin thing in getting sick when the other one is sick. And crying when the other one cries. And breaking out in hives when the other one is nervous. And finishing eachother's sentences. And knowing when something is going on. She knows me probably better than any other woman in my life, and that fact doesn't scare me in the least. LOVE HER.

There are other women in my life that impact me every day. The women I work with. The women I go to church with. The women I interact with through this screen everyday. The women that I stop and chat with in the ketchup aisle at WalMart.

And I can't imagine my life without any of them.

Because to have to choose one of these women over another couldn't happen. Ever. Because they all hold very equal but very different places in my heart.

I understand that some women connect with one and only woman in this very intimate way. That one best friend is enough for them.

But not me.

I feel so honored that God chose to hardwire me differently.

And I feel so honored that God chose all my besties just for me!

Because He knew I needed them.

Each and every one of them.


To my besties.....I love you all like crazy. You have no idea the joy that you bring me. You are truly a gift.

I Am FREE....To Go To the Gym....Uh, Thank You?

Today I wrote a check for $127.

And it wasn't for groceries.

Or for an electric bill.

Today I wrote a check for a 3 month membership to...

...are you ready for this?

THE GYM.

No kidding. I put on tennis shoes and everything. My really cute metallic silver tennis shoes that were bought with looks entirely in mind. Bless their Nike hearts, they've never worked as hard as they worked today...

And they didn't even do much. (But, don't tell Mr. and Mrs. Spiffy Nike that...because they are under the impression that they really worked hard today....as are my muscles.)

Here's how it all went down...

It all started with Stephanie. And all my other health-nutty friends. I'm so proud of them, I really am, but I had made a commitment to myself to not join 'em. Because exercise and I just don't get along. And it's mutual. I embarrass exercise by even attempting it, and I don't like to sweat. So we are on much better terms if we leave each other alone.

And then, Stephanie had to go and talk fancy to me.

And before I knew it, I was making a gym date and committing myself to treadmills and weight machines for the summer. I'm still not sure what got into me. A total momentary lapse in sanity, I'm sure of it.

So, this morning, I woke up, pinned my hair up out of my face, laced up the rarely worn Nikes, and headed out on my date. I talked to myself the entire car ride to the gym, asking myself if I really knew what I was getting myself into. Apparently I am not a very good persuader of myself, because I continued on my way, met Steph, and paid the man at the counter. No turning back now. I'm still wondering if Kirk slipped something in my water bottle this morning, because that is another possible explanation for my whacked-out follow-through of this horrendous plan.

First stop....treadmill land.

My experience with treadmills is pretty nil. We don't have one at the house, and I can count the number of times I've been inside a gym in my life on one hand. I've seen them on TV, and I've driven past plenty of them while slurping a milkshake, but darkening the door? Uh. No. In fact, treadmills to me equal laundry racks...because that is how they are used in most people's houses.

Just sayin'.

I gingerly stepped on board of Mr. Treadmill. He had all kinds of fancy buttons, and I kept having visions of me either breaking Mr. Treadmill, or being that goob that gets going too fast and slides off the end banging her chin as she flies half way across the room. Luckily neither happened. Although I came close to the latter scenario a time or two.

I did, however, manage to sweat. A lot. And had to quit after a mile. Because I'm a wuss. And I was beginning to lose all feeling in my legs. Poor Stephanie...she could have kept on walking until next Tuesday, but she got off when I wimped out. Good friend.

After jelly-legging my way off of the treadmill, it was off to the machine weights.

Bless Stephanie's heart. She got more than she bargained for. Because I AM A MORON. And a TERRIBLE STUDENT. She was trying to show me how to do each of the machines, but then I would get all confused, and she'd have to show me all over again. And again. I'm so glad that she loves me....because I'm most definitely the most embarrassing person ever to hang around with.

After working all kinds of muscles that I didn't even know I had, I made a beeline for the exit. And dragged Steph out with me. I think she was still giggling at my moronacy. (Really...it was that pathetic.)

But, I survived.

And I decided to reward myself by getting a new pair of flip flops. And flip flops don't have calories.....so good for me.

After getting back home with new flip flops and bragging to the husband about being a gym rat (and having him giggle hysterically), we headed out for some Memorial Day fun with some really good friends (and lots of dogs! *wink*).

Here is me and Lisa...posing for one of our many paparazzi shots thanks to our 8 year olds.

And here is Kirk helping Wes with his new deck. They are all sweaty and sawdusty and manly. Lisa and I watched. I got sawdust on my feet...which I think totally counts.

And then Lisa and I did what all thoughtful wives do....we took naps, while the husbands slaved over 2x4s.


~~~~~~~~~

On a serious note, my heart is so grateful to our veterans who have fought and our soldiers that are currently fighting for our freedom. And to those who have given their lives for the sake of my family's liberties, words are not even enough to express the appreciation that swells my heart. I'm honored to be an American. An American with choices to make that are frivolous like to gym or not to gym and to flip flop or not to flip flop. The freedoms we have are countless, and are so often taken for granted. I'm thankful for sacrifice. And for willingness. And for devotion.

I pray that your holiday was a blessed one spent with the people that matter most to you, and that a few moments were reserved today for remembering those that make this country free.

And munching on a hot dog or burger while doing so ain't too shabby either.


Happy Memorial Day 2009!!

300 and Quiet

Tonight is ye ole' blogs birthday.

And I'm celebrating my 300th post by having nothing.to.say.

I've started this post no less than 9 times. And each time I start over....because it is nothing but mindless chatter. Just trying to take up white space.

So for this 300th post, I'm just going to be quiet.

And thank my Jesus for you, my blogeeps. And for all the giggles. And for all the guffaws. And for all the tears. And for all the "you can do it"s. And for all the "snap out of it"s.

Thanks.

For being my ears.

I heart ya.

My Daddy

This is my daddy.

Today's his birthday. He turned 67. I don't think he'd mind me telling his age. Because he's proud of it. Because his 67 years have been full. And good. And blessed.

When I was 5 years old, my daddy and mama followed a calling. A calling that a lot of people are too scared to obey. But my daddy was brave. He chose to say, "Where?" when God said, "Go."

We said goodbye to our grandparents and friends, boarded a plane, and flew exactly half-way around the world to live in a country where fair-skinned, blond-haired, blue-eyed girls were more than a novelty....they were an anomaly. We traded Happy Meals for eating rice curries on banana leaves with our hands. We traded skunks in our yards for cobras. We lived in the depths of a culture of people that truly lived poverty, and my dad immersed himself in the people. He preached. He ministered. He loved. And we were blessed.

I've said a million times that my experiences as a missionary's kid were taken for granted every second that I actually lived them. Only now can I look back and realize what an amazing gift my daddy gave my mom, sister, and me. And all because he chose to be obedient. All because he said, "Send me, Lord. I'll go."

My daddy is brave. And smart. And funny (or punny!!!). And talented. And creative. And encouraging. And joyful. And gentle. And compassionate. And inspirational.

I'm so proud of him.

And so honored that somehow he finds it in his heart to be proud of me, too.

Love ya, Dad! Hope your birthday is amazing!

Quilting

I have a long list of hobbies, but very near the top of favorites is QUILTING!

I love it so much.

And one of my best friends, Stephanie, has inspired me to dig out my quilting hoop and needles once again. Thanks, Steph! (Check out Steph's quilt she is working on here....so cute!)

I have always loved quilts. I love how each of their pieces represent something significant about the quilter. Whether it be the old rag quilts, with their bits and pieces of grandpa's flannel shirts or old gingham dresses. So Little House on the Prairie. Or the quilts pieced in the midst of the polyester age. I have a couple of double-knit quilts....complete with pea green and harvest gold squares. Groovy, Baby. Or the quilts pieced with decorative fabrics....it says so much about the quilter's taste and personality.

I have chests and trunks full of old quilts, and I love to take an evening every once in awhile to dig them out and admire their craftsmanship. I love to imagine my family members as they sat and stitched. Amazing.

I'm working on a quilt right now that is taking me A LONG TIME! I think I'm going on 2 years. Whoa.

Here's the deal. It is 100% hand-pieced and (will-be) hand-quilted! No sewing machine here, folks.

My grandmother (my mom's mom) was working on a quilt when she passed away. She had completed about 60 quilt blocks....all tiny hexagons and all completely hand pieced. They aren't my first choice in fabrics, but they are stitched to perfection and are so full of memories and nostalgia.

Several years ago, my grandfather gave my mom the quilt blocks. In turn, my mom passed them to me. I'm working on piecing the blocks together. The honeycomb style of the quilt is making it a slow and tedious process. Everything has to be hand stitched together, and I couldn't use a machine if I wanted to.

I'm so excited about finishing it up and am about a third of the way there. It is so relaxing to me to sit in front of the TV and stitch away. I'm sad that our busy schedule hasn't allowed for much stitching lately.

But, I'm resolving to be more diligent. I can't wait to finish it up and give it to my mom!

Here's what I'm working on. Cute, huh?

(Is this the first time you are seeing it, Mom?)

My Mama

Today is my mom's birthday.

I heart that woman so much.

If you have ever had the pleasure of meeting my mama, then you already know what an amazing woman she is. Talk about the picture of Proverbs 31....

This is my mama and daddy. Aren't they the cutest?

So, Mom....Happy Birthday! Hope it was a great one. I love you so much, and when I grow up...I want to be just like you! Love, Amb

I'm Still Wiping Tears....Wanna Join Me?

I am home sick....yet again. Don't know what is up, but my immune system is having some serious issues adjusting to public school life. My kids are doing relatively well....it's just me. Go figure.

I'm about to settle in for a little snooze, but I wanted to pass this link on to you. This blog is one of my favorite ones to read. If you follow the Christian group Selah at all, then you may know the story of Todd, one of the singers. He has an incredible family, but they experienced an incredible tragedy this year when they lost their precious baby girl. His wife, Angie, records all her ups and downs in dealing with their loss and also expresses her incredible reliance on God. There are few things that I have read lately that draw me to my knees like Angie's blog. Her post from yesterday (click here) had me weeping. I'm still drying tears.

If you get a chance, check it out. It is such a beautiful image of love, grace, and what it means to walk this crazy road called life.....it is all to eventually get to this amazing place that we can only dream of right now.....an eternity with our Beloved Bridegroom.

My Epiphany (Thanks to Red, Swollen Eyes)

I woke up with both of my eyes matted shut. I feel like someone just stretched my eyelids open and poured a gallon of glass shards in each eye. I can barely see to type this, and my glasses are giving me a headache the size of New Hampshire.

Enough whining. But I will go on to tell you that I am home today with pink eye. Gross. I have medicine and am prying my eyes open enough every so often to squeeze the drops in my already stinging eyes. Sorry, more whining.

I sent the boys on to school this morning and was left thinking about an entire day to myself. What wonderful things I could get accomplished! Only problem is that I can't see well enough to do anything that requires vision usage (uh, everything) for any long amount of time and wearing my glasses gives me such a headache that I can't even fumble my way through much of anything even if I could see to do it.

I've laid in bed for a couple of hours now. Tried to read a book, but could barely make out the words. I don't feel like watching TV through squinty eyes, and though my chore-list is long, I really don't feel like even tackling any of them. But, my VERY QUIET stay in the sheets has left me time to do some much needed thinking and praying.

And this is why I'm drippy-eyeing my way through this blog post.

I think I'm in much need of an E-Break. I've become so consumed with this computer and all of my friendships that are contained within its web-pages and dot-coms, that I'm really beginning to lose some focus. All morning I have argued with myself over being so frustrated that I actually didn't feel like spending the entire solid day blogging, surfing, and facebooking. I thought I must be losing my mind. That's when I realized that I've done too much.

I've spent countless hours blogging about my messy house and changing my facebook status to comments about my piles of laundry....I should have taken the time to get out of this chair to go do something about it. I've become frustrated for many, many minutes about my pictures of my children not up-loading properly.....I should have gotten up out of this chair and just gone and played with my real-life kids, not the ones trapped in my camera.

So, I don't know how long I'll be gone. It may be just a day or two, may be longer. But, I really want to make a concerted effort to get some things straightened out at home before I sit down here again to peruse the pages.

It is going to drive me crazy to not know what is going on with all of you for a few days....but, I'll be back, I promise. Just an E-Break.

Now I need to lie down and get a tissue.

Quick, Slow, Slow

One of my favorite blogs to read is The Simple Wife. I just love, well, her simplicity. I was feeling kind of in a funk this morning and was already super snappy with everyone, probably mostly from exhaustion from our long weekend and the thought of all the laundry and "putting away" that I had to do today. Anyway, I was checking up on some email and blog reading that I had missed over the weekend, and clicked on The Simple Wife. Instant message from the Lord.

If you get the chance, check out her blog post, because she words it so much better than I'm going to be able to, but she talked about feeling really convicted about a certain Scripture in the book of James. (Interestingly enough, I had just gone through the book of James a few days ago, so I was fresh with this passage.)

Everyone should be quick to listen,

slow to speak,

and slow to become angry,

for man's anger does not bring about

the righteous life that God desires.

James 1:19-20

I guess that I have always viewed this passage as an "out-of-the-house" kind of instruction. Or as an inward attitude-check, but Joanne (The Simple Wife) pointed out that she was feeling it as conviction about the way that she parented.

Oh my. Did that hit home or what? I began to reflect and meditate on the passage of Scripture and came to the same conclusion. I don't have a problem with my temper or with anger management -- out in public. But, in my own home, I do get frustrated and aggravated...a lot. I realized that I am not being a good model for them. I often times am not quick to listen to them and hear them out. I become wrapped up in my own projects or schedules, and don't make as much time for them as I should to just LISTEN. I'm also not slow to speak. I'm very quick to speak. Especially to my kids. I find myself always barking or instructing or correcting...all day long...again, not stopping long enough to hear them out. And becoming angry? I'm pretty quick to become angry (more frustrated) with them, and I have a habit of raising my voice a little too often with my kids.

So, what have I learned? That if I want my kids to become tremendous men of God (and I've been entrusted with the job of raising them to be just that), I MUST be a model for them. How can they be expected to take on this way of handling themselves when their primary teacher (me) can't even handle herself in that way? I must be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry. Because more than anything in this world, I want my children and my family to have the righteous life that God desires for us.

Joanne pointed out that she was going to try to keep in mind "Quick, Slow, Slow" throughout the day as a reminder of this instruction. Me too.

Quick. Slow. Slow.

Quick. Slow. Slow.