Enough

Have I ever really believed that God is enough?

I mean, I've probably said He was. I might have even thought that I believed it.

But your beliefs are pretty much revealed through your actions.

So.

Have I acted like God is enough?

Or has my life thus far been mostly a study of how God is not enough?

Don't I really expect God plus?

You know,

God plus personal fulfillment.

God plus healthy children.

God plus financial security.

God plus physical safety.

God plus a happy marriage.

That's the lie I find myself believing, and living, so often.

The truth is

God is enough.

No plus.

Just God.

Enough.

And I guess I will know I am believing that truth, and therefore rejecting that lie, when my life reflects that God is enough.

When I stop demanding God to give me the things I think I deserve.

The things I think I have somehow earned with my good behavior toward the Almighty.

My self-righteous good deeds that I keep trying to stack up against my bad ones.

My mental list of all the commandments that I have so carefully kept.

O God, I am learning, as you are removing, that you are, indeed, enough.

The Wise Finnian

This little girl may be a genius.

Or not.

But I probably owe her a positive post since the last time that I wrote about her I think I may have mentioned the word "terrible" and dwelt heavily upon her tiny child misbehavior.

At any rate, I think we all know there are many sides to every person. So why would a two foot tall person be any different?

We think she is learning the ropes awfully fast.

Of all the Keigley children, perhaps even including Riley, Piper Finn is the only one not at all afraid of Magnus. (The dog that is beginning to make me question my judgement.) And, of all the Keigley children (the walking ones at least) it seems Piper has the most reasonable excuse to be afraid of the overly happy, lopey, larger than her puppy that today actually knocked her down and attempted to steal her beloved eagle. And do you know what that brave little tyke did? She fought to get her eagle back. That's the spirit Piper! (I did come to her rescue, in case you are wondering what type of parent I am to let a dog and toddler duel it out. And I would have arrived at the scene earlier if my hands had not been full of trash bags that the dog later knocked over, spreading dryer sheets about the driveway as I was trying to load up the rest of the gang to get Riley to her tutoring session for which we were already running late.)

Also, this sprite of a daughter likes to clear her place at the table. Without being asked. (It's adorable.) Walking very slowly, with a look of utter concentration across her brow, she carefully crosses the kitchen, reaches for the stool with one hand while precariously balancing her plate or cup with the other hand and places the stool before the sink, climbs up and delicately deposits her items.

And, drum roll please, the Little Willow has decided to take upon herself the task of potty training. Yes, that is right. (I feel it may be a fluke, but let's not ruin the moment - okay?) Four times so far, with zero prompting, Piper has asked to go the potty and when she sat down....lo and behold.... she actually used the bathroom!

Do you think this kiddo is brilliant?

Or do you think she has already learned this about the world at our busy house - sometimes you have to fend for yourself, clean up after yourself and take care of your own needs.

Whatever the reason, we think she's a pretty smart Munch. She has passed her test. We'll let her stay.

Lunch

I found myself staring at my plate during lunch today. The sight of my meal triggered some memory in me.

It wasn't an exciting meal, but it was a very familiar one. I had a scoop of this macaroni-tuna-egg-salad-type-thing and two slices of banana bread spread with cream cheese. Don't worry, it doesn't offend me if that sounds unappetizing to you. I know. It's kind of a weird meal.

I have no name for the type-thing I was eating. I just know it was this concoction that my mom brought out frequently during the summer growing up on our family's dairy farm. I think maybe she made it up. She probably kept making it for two reasons. One, everyone ate it. (Even my ridiculously picky older brother Dean, which is saying more than you know.) Two, it is served cold and therefore could be easily transported to the field in a Tupperware container to meet Dad or whomever on the tractor for a quick picnic lunch.

And the banana bread with cream cheese on top? Yep, another combination my mother always ate. You should try it - it's tasty.

It's funny how much I unconsciously find myself doing the very things my mother used to do. And how missing someone changes and morphs through time.

I still miss my mom. Maybe even more now than I have before. But it's different. It's not the hungry, devouring everything in its path sort of grief that the early days held. It's a more subtle sorrow.

I'm sad she doesn't know my children.

I miss her godly perspective and her gentle reminders of where I have been that always encouraged me to be patient when I wished my children were...somehow farther down the path. (Particularly one teenager I know. How I long for those gentle reminders that I too wore clothes of which my mother disapproved and listened to bands that were not her favorite. Loudly. And often.)

But there's so much joy in the remembering as well.

C.S. Lewis said, "Sorrow, however, turns out to be not a state but a process. It needs not a map but a history."

I love to tell my children stories of growing up in Virginia. On a stinky cow farm. And playing with my brothers. Sharing a bedroom with all SIX of us for four long years. (You think I'm kidding.) Hiding in the cornfield. Camping by the pond. Sleeping in the feed room. Playing with matchbox cars in the sand. And eating macaroni-tuna-egg-salad-type-things in the shade with my family.

Why Do I Write This Blog?

One word.

Perspective.

That's the one word reason. (And if I had self-control I would end this blog post right here.)

But I don't. Have self-control, that is.

I write this blog because I find that when I am keeping it up to date, I like my entire life better. I know that seems like a ridiculous amount of importance to place on a silly computer-generated journal-esque type thingy. But it's true.

When Piper pulls off her diaper and poops on the living room floor I get less angry and instead wonder how I can spin that occurrence to make you guys laugh. When spit up spews out of Fox's face and pools up inside my bra, my first thought may be "Oh, that's disgusting!" but my second thought is "What photo can I stick at the top of this entry?"

And sometimes my thoughts never make it to this blog, but just thinking about my day in a different light usually is enough to cure that moment's frustration.

So I write these ideas down as they come to me - I have two notebooks actually. One on my desk in our bedroom and one at the desk in the sunroom. (I don't always have time to travel far to record my fleeting ideas. And if I don't record them, you won't ever read about them. Because I will forget them by the time my head hits my pillow.)

So I guess this blog is like a sanity-saver. Cheap therapy.

And every day I can laugh at my life a little bit is a good day.

The Right Team

Bergen is a boy who approaches life wide open.

Most people only see Hawkeye revved up, nearly careening out of control at any given moment.

But the boy has more depth than that.

He loves his siblings. Loves them. He particularly loves his younger siblings. Adores would not be too strong of a word here.

Berg offers to hold Piper's hand when walking outside. He requests the pleasure of tucking her in for daily naps. He reads her books and plays Weebles endlessly with her.

Each morning he ambles into our bedroom, thumb in mouth, searching for Otto Fox so he can get in his daily dose of cuddling. He requests that we slide over so he can get in enough face time. He positions himself face to face with the tiny fellow and he just begins his routine of simply staring into Wilder's baby eyes.

This morning I asked him this question. "Berg, why do you love your baby brother so much?"

Through his thumb-filled mouth, Bergen answered, "Because he's on the boys team."

So This Is Half Way?

My birthday falls right on the heels of London's birthday. And when you reach a certain age, like my age, you start thinking about the numbers in a different light.

I don't feel old. Really. (Well, some days, but not every day.)

But the truth is, statistically speaking (why do we even say that?), I am middle aged. I could easily be at the half way point of my life. Okay, I guess theoretically at any given moment any of us could be at the half way point of our lives. But you know what I mean!

And when I survey my life in the most basic of manners, it looks like it's going alright. Married, kids, house. That should equal some level of maturity - right? Some level. I guess I am more mature than some junior high school girls.

I don't know. Some days I don't even feel grown up. I still want someone to remind me to service my car, to call home after a long trip or to tell me "job well done" when I accomplish some minor achievement.

A lot of days I feel like I am probably some sort of an impostor, an amateur masquerading around as an adult. I have the years behind me to claim the title of adult, but the rest of the job description just doesn't always seem to fit.

You know the job description I'm talking about. The one that proclaims things such as . . .

Adult equals advice-giver. And by advice, you are supposed to be offering good advice. But what do I have to offer anyone? A longer list of mistakes to match the years.

Adult equals confidence. Yeah, pretty sure we know where this is headed. Hence the impostor, amateur, beginner feelings. Confidence? There are still days when I question my parenting skills, my teaching abilities and my basic sense of human kindness. When does that confidence kick in? Post middle age, maybe? Whatever that is.

Adult equals responsible. Umm Hmm. Sure, I mostly get the bills paid on time. But let me ask you, do responsible people let their kids eat cereal for dinner? Do responsible people allow their children to wear swimsuits all day when visiting any large body of water is not in the least in the cards? Do responsible people stay up until 3 a.m. watching movies with their husbands when they know a baby wakes up at 5 a.m. to eat breakfast?

The list could really just go on and on. There are so many attributes we assume should accompany adulthood. I guess we are all still arriving.

Maybe adulthood is being okay with that process. Recognizing that it's ultimately a journey we are on and less a destination. Maybe having arrived only really means you realize that you are a work in progress. Slow progress.

Some lessons take a long time to learn. But I find that I sort of enjoy the education, despite its awkward and often painful progression. I'm thirty-six years old and I am just now beginning to learn to trust my instincts in so many areas. At this middle age, I have only recently discovered clothing that I like and I feel good wearing. What on earth took so long? I don't know.

But if this is half way, I know this. I better begin to enjoy the journey, because the first half went by in an awfully speedy fashion. I can only assume that will be true for the next part as well.

Six

Dear London,

You make me laugh. Your thinking face is adorable. Your trying-a-new-food face is so serious and thoughtful. Your accents are spot on. (You are your daddy's daughter, after all.)

You are such a good big sister. I love how you help your brother when he is hurt. And I like how you offer your favorite toys to Mosely when she cries. You entertain Piper and make her laugh. You love to pick out onesies for Otto and you always want to cuddle with "his face", as you say.

You are obsessed with food. Every night at bedtime the questions are always the same. "What are we eating for breakfast? What are we eating for lunch? What are we eating for dinner?" As soon as you are excused from the table you begin asking for more food.

You are an observer. You closely monitor what Daddy and I do and say and you imitate and question us by turns.

You are about to enter first grade. And yet I can clearly remember your birth, your ducky hair when you awoke from naps as an infant, your first steps, that sweet red dress you wore when you were learning to walk, your first word (dog), your favorite finger food (green beans - Grandma would buy you jars and jars of them), the sound of your new voice experimenting with language ("coooooot" instead of "cute"), your first big girl bed, your love of the Little People videos, your first running shoes, your ever-present buff, how you overcame any sense of shyness after moving to South Carolina. Sigh. I can remember so much. So much London-ness. And I love it all.

Oh Scout. I like watching you grow. I like to play Triominoes with you just like my mom played with me. I like framing your exceptional artwork drawings around our home. I like seeing how you have overcome your fear of Magnus and now you call him your little buddy instead of running from him while screaming. I like dreaming about your future and hanging out with you in your present. I like being your mom.

Happy Birthday Six Year Old.

Love,

Mommy

Not Yet Two

That second year of every child's life is supposed to be the killer one, right? I mean, the year has gotten so bad historically that someone gave the entire 365 days a special name - The Terrible Two's.

I don't have any two-year-olds living in my house right now. But I have this one kid, who is NOT two, mind you, who spent her day trying to live like a legendary Terrible Two.

After breakfast I stepped into the bathroom. (Uh-oh. I should know better than to do that, right?) When I emerged, mere mili-seconds later, I heard Piper making interesting sounds in the other part of our house. I walked down the hall and noticed that the door to the kids' bathroom was shut and the Piper Finn noises were coming from behind a closed door. Never good. Piper was sitting on the floor holding two saltine crackers, one graham cracker and two lollipops. What? I let her finish the graham cracker (it was already half-consumed anyway) and confiscated the saltines and the lollipops.

A short time later while I was nursing Otto a few summer staffers dropped in for a quick visit. I could see all of the children at the art table, playing with stamps and creating birthday cards with our guests. I must have blinked or something. When Piper stood up from the table her arms were brown. From marker. Lots of marker.

Otto spits up, I take him into his room to change his clothes and when I come out of the room Piper is standing at the kitchen counter, ferociously chewing several pieces of gum. Uh, I sound like a really distracted parent right now. But I'm telling you, Piper has never even touched the gum/candy bowl that has been sitting in the same place on our counter since she we moved here over a year ago.

After happily spitting her gum in the trash can she bounds off for another room and comes back wearing my Canon digital camera around her neck. Umm, bad idea.

(This is really just one morning with just one kid.)

Maybe some time passes, I don't even know any longer. Mosely comes running in to tell me that Piper has discovered the toilet bowl scrub brush and is scrubbing the toilet. I go investigate. Apparently, by "scrubbing the toilet" Mosely meant "splashing toilet water all over the bathroom floor". Nice.

Other bizarre events might or might not have occurred later in the day. It's all a blur to me right now.

Terrible Two's? I don't think I'm ready for this.

My Boy!

Guess who finally discovered his own thumb?

I guess he is a Keigley after all.

Framily

Framily.

It's not a misspelling.

It's a word I like to think Kevin and I coined.

Framily.

By this word we mean - the people who are not actually related to us by blood or marriage, but we wish they were anyway. The people who we choose to surround ourselves with, spend time with, celebrate and weep with. The people who we call when we need encouragement. The people who we trust our children with. The people who don't offend us when they tell us the truth because we know the love behind the words.

That's framily.

You probably have some of those people in your life too.

For our family, the people we cherish as framily are the Wickstrums.

If you know them and if you know us, you know what I mean.

This family has been there, just plain and simply been there, for our family. More times than I could ever begin to count.

I met them when I was in high school. When their youngest was just joining the clan himself. (And now that baby is a grown up.)

They trusted me to babysit their children. (Although I think I gave them many occasions to question my efficiency in this department - uh, video proof is not necessary, but it does exist.)

They wrote me letters in college and sent care packages to combat any homesickness I might have endured. (I still have a letter from Jesse, drawings from Austin and a personally designed homemade barbecue sauce label from Erik.)

The summer I was dumped by my college love Chuck, Emma and Sally and I crushed ground chuck beef with a vengeance in his dishonor.

They embraced Kevin as soon as they met him and they even let Kevin and I live in their house for a few months after we were married and in between houses. Later, we moved back to the farm and spent so many idyllic years raising goats and marking our summers as officially beginning when the suburban with Florida tags pulled in the dusty drive.

Each child who joined our home was loved and welcomed as another extended family member.

When my own sweet mother passed away, Sally listened and we cried and we mourned (and we still do) and she generously stepped up to a different role for me as a surrogate mother.

When good times rolled, the Wickstrums have rejoiced with us. When hard times hang on us, they have reached out to meet both physical and emotional needs.

This is such an incomplete list. I haven't talked about weddings. (Austin as a little ring bearer; Emma as a bridesmaid; Riley as a flower girl; London and Mosely as flower girls.) And I haven't mentioned how every additional family member, through birth or marriage, is an incredible and wonderful part of the whole mix now too. And I know I am doing an inadequate job at singing the praises of our framily.

I mean, Emma is with Riley in Africa right now, for goodness sake.

I think I am saying this . . . . I am glad/grateful/overjoyed/amazed/humbled at what framily means to us.

And I hope you have some framily too.

These Two . . .

These two little girls can . . .

- Make peanut butter toast

- Pick out cute clothes for Piper and Otto Fox

- Help Bergen put on his favorite footie camouflage pajamas

- Change Piper Finn's diaper (not requested by Mommy mind you, just took their own initiative one day)

- Spread cream cheese on a bagel

- Take a shower like a grown up

- Answer the telephone politely

- Read a book to Piper

- Load the washing machine

- Clean up their own bedrooms

- Secretly prepare breakfast in bed for their parents

- Fold towels

- Unload the dishwasher

Truly, these little girls are such helpers. Most days, they REQUEST chores!

As London frequently reminds me, "Mommy, it's a good thing you have so many kids because you have so much work to do. You need our help."

By The Numbers

3 - Number of meals I prepared, consumed and cleaned up

5 - Number of small people who were bathed by me

39 - Number of tiny sunflower seed kernels that Mosely spilled when she dropped the container she was holding while trying to illegally climb up onto the counter

16 - Number of ears of corn that were shucked this afternoon

6 - Number of blood curdling screams that Mosely released after falling/scraping her elbow/ being splashed by hot corn cooking water/ being chased by Magnus/ not being able to open the door from the outside when her hands were full of dog food bowls/ expressing her displeasure at not being allowed to hold the garden hose when it was actually still London's turn

22 - Number of bug bites all over my body that itch incessantly

7 - Number of times I have fed my beautiful infant son today (beginning at 6 a.m. - hooray for 6 a.m.!! I'm not kidding. Honestly.)

1 - Number of actual personal phone calls I have received today (By the way, Riley is doing wonderfully in Africa!!)

8 - Number of telemarketing phone calls I have received today

1 - Number of spankings administered today

4 - Number of loads of laundry washed today

0 - Number of times I have left my house today

Countless - Number of times I have had to remind myself of the words I typed just a few days ago . . . this job matters. Everything is spiritual. This is worthwhile work.

Exhibit A

So lately Maggie has been boldly issuing demands and challenges from her blog. She even claimed that her spouse was the most lovable of all spouses and encouraged her pals to make glowing lists about their own husbands' incredible attributes on their own blogs.

The two Sarahs made endearing lists about both of their beloveds. But those girls are newlyweds after all.

Instead of a list, and because I like to buck the system for the mere sake of bucking the system, I offer you instead . . . a photograph.

Let's call it Exhibit A.

This photograph features a little girl's Barbie doll wearing a pair of home-created sandals. Please notice that the doll is also sporting a one-of-a-kind, hand-stitched chic felt skirt. Both lovingly and carefully crafted by one Kevin J. Keigley's own capable hands.

Doesn't that say it all?

Everything

Sometimes I think it is ironic how often the stuff of my daily life reminds me of Biblical truth in some random way.

And then I remember.

Everything is spiritual.

A couple of years ago Kevin and I heard a speaker named Rob Bell teach at a funky little club in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. His speaking tour was entitled "Everything is Spiritual".

And I really believe it is.

Remembering that truth actually brings much more meaning (and importance and accountability) to my daily existence. If everything truly is spiritual, then I guess it does matter how I respond to my children when I am exhausted. Or which words come out of my mouth when I discover Bergen peed in the bed, changed his clothes, shoved them back in his closet and slept on top of the pee stain all night without telling me. I guess I am accountable for the lessons I teach my children through my actions and the very manner in which I order our days and our weeks.

If everything is spiritual then God probably ordained those moments and situations in my life that I find cumbersome, burdensome or plain old boring.

A former teacher of mine recently read my blog and wrote me a really encouraging note. He said, "In my life I have achievements of which I am proud, and foolish low points which I pray be removed from mine and all who know memories. I thank God that he can remove as far as the east is from the west. Between these extremes, are the routines of our days. Your blog reminds me not to let the routines become routine, but rather that their sum is the value of our lives."

Yeah, that's golden. Because that means that the every day stuff which takes up most of our time and energy (the sum) is really the important part of our lives. It means . . . everything is spiritual.

Although thinking of everything in our life being spiritual places a heavier emphasis on our daily decisions, the stuff we think God just doesn't care about, it also makes our lives so much more worthwhile. It makes it easier to keep my kitchen tidy. Encourages me to enjoy the nightly bathtime ritual. To hold my tongue when I want to complain about the long line at the grocery aisle or the slow car in front of us with his left turn signal still on.

Since so much of my life during these years of raising small children is spent in mundane tasks, I find it empowering to believe that everything is spiritual. I find it redeeming to know that God sees my ministry to my family as an act of worship to Him. Because that's what it is. That's what I want it to be. Everything is spiritual.

How we spend our days, is, of course, how we spend our lives. - Annie Dillard

You Tell Me

Is it wrong to dress your children in Run DMC and Rolling Stones t-shirts if the shirts were on sale for 75 cents at Target?

I drew the line at ACDC.

A girl's got to have standards - right?

Friday Morning

Yesterday morning I broke an unwritten Keigley household rule.

I turned on the television first thing in the morning.

Let me 'splain.

Because Wilder had eaten breakfast off his normal routine, Kevin had already left for work before I was able to take a shower.

I really wanted a shower.

"Hey guys? Who wants to watch Curious George?"

You might call it poor parenting - I call it buying a half hour of my life.

My aspirations actually reached beyond the cleansing shower. I had just purchased some eyeliner (don't tell Riley!) and I wanted to experiment. While in Virginia Emma had given me brief instructions on applying eye liner. (My mom never taught me how - bless her heart. Just as I have never shown my daughter - bless my heart.)

So I did it. I let my kids watch PBS programming while I spent an entire half hour in the bathroom.

I played with tweezers, glittery powder, hair product (my favorite grooming item) and the new eye liner. In case you are wondering - I could use a few more lessons. I didn't take photos.

I put on earrings, a necklace. I tried to choose an outfit that could even meet the approval of Clinton and Stacy.

No, it was not a special day. Just Friday. Our day's plans included nothing more than eating lunch at home and then taking Magnus (Silver Hammer Rigby) to the lake for a swim. (Him - not us!) Maybe a trip to the grocery store to pick up those bananas . . . and dog food.

I emerged from my half hour, turned off the television and went about the business of living at our house.

After I fed Wilder I burped him.

And then he spit up. All over my great outfit.

I wanted to curse. (You think that's an extreme over reaction? Okay, you may be right.)

But changing shirts altered my carefully groomed hairstyle. And caused my necklace to no longer coordinate.

I guess this snapshot of my sad little existence one ordinary morning really has no point.

I don't think spending half an hour to get ready to go nowhere is actually wrong.

But it did remind me of a verse.

"Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting - but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised."

So I must remember the balance between caring about what people think of me, or of what I think of me, versus what the Lord thinks of me.

And I guess I can't buy that in a bottle on the beauty aisle at Target.

Something About Love

Piper has a little friend. His name is Beckett.

Piper is not always very kind to Beckett.

Beckett will be standing still. Minding his own business. Being happy and content - a model citizen.

Piper approaches out of the shadowy background. She walks behind her young companion. And then, without provocation, Piper two-hand shoves Beckett.

It's awful. I am so embarrassed by her behavior. Ashamed. What in the world? Why would she do that? I scoop her up and take her off to the other room for some baby discipline.

But I don't stop loving her. When we are done with the discipline, I don't turn away from her affection. I welcome her next hug and kiss openly.

Because I love her.

Even if she shoves her friend, my friend's son.

I love Piper. She is my child.

And when she messes up, and I know she will, I keep loving her.

Not because she's good.

Not because she will never push Beckett again.

Just because she is mine.

She's my child.

And I love her.

Guess what this is just like?

Yeah. It all comes back to Him.

Do I even have to explain it?

Romans 8:37-39 No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Just What We Need

What do the Keigleys NOT need today?

New brakes on Kevin's Tahoe? No. We needed those. And purchased them this afternoon.

Groceries? Actually, we do need these. There is neither milk, bread nor bananas in our house currently.

How about a new puppy? You're right! We do NOT NEED a new puppy today.

But guess what we picked up and carried home this very afternoon?

Yes.

A new puppy.

A beautiful twelve week old chocolate lab puppy.

Magnus. (Middle name yet to be determined, although it must contain a reference to The Beatles, as all of our other domestic pet names have.)

It was free, after all. And registered. A better pedigree than our children probably. Doesn't that count for something?

I still need bananas, milk and bread though. Do puppies produce that?

Oh Virginia!

After each bathroom break and after every question of "When will we be there?" you begin to question whether the drive is worth the effort.

But then you pull in the farm's driveway.

The air is sweeter. The trees are shadier. The breeze is breezier.

Yeah, it's worth every squabble over a crayon, every fast food meal indigestion, every mile and every hour on the road.

Last Night

This photograph was taken last night at 10:22 p.m.

Wilder was crying.

Bergen popped out of his room (note the time again, please) to see what the dishwasher was doing and to offer his four year old assistance.

The cell phone was beeping to let me know a text was arriving.

The oven timer was screeching telling me the blueberry muffins were ready.

All of the laundry in our home was clean in anticipation of our Virginia journey. (Please acknowledge with me the miracle that this feat is.)

There was not even one dirty towel to soak up this mess. I think using clean towels and having to do another load of laundry was the most upsetting fact about this event.

10:22 p.m. at our house.

Wishes

Mosely came running in from playing outside.

She approached her older sister cautiously. "Riley, do wishes really come true?"

Riley hesitated and glanced in my direction. I just smiled and figured I would let her handle this one on her own.

"Well, Mosely. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don't," Riley ventured diplomatically. "What did you wish for?"

Mosely looked skeptical. "If I tell you my wish, then it definitely won't come true."

"Actually Mosely," Riley said, "Sometimes when you tell someone your wish, it can actually come true. Like if you tell Mom and Dad your wish, it might come true."

Smart kids.

Sometimes wishes come true. Sometimes they don't. But when you share your secret wishes with someone you allow an opportunity for God to use regular old people to make those wishes come true.

Mosely quietly shared that she was wishing for a teddy bear.

I think that one may just come true for you kiddo!

A Rose By Any Other Name . . .

Is it really true?

Does one thing become another thing if we use a different word to describe that thing? (That sounds complicated.)

Because here's a word I would rename.

Prison.

I'm thinking about calling it by another name.

I'm thinking about calling it . . . vacation.

Yeah.

Vacation.

Three meals a day. Not prepared in any way by my own hands. And if I am really contrary, those meals will be carried to me in a private, quiet room where I sit alone on the only piece of furniture available. A bed.

Time set aside with regular consistency each and every day to exercise. And a facility in which to do said exercise. All at absolutely no cost to me. None whatsoever.

Early bedtimes.

Loads of uninterrupted reading time.

I don't have to fold anyone's laundry - not even my own.

No concerns over what to wear because the clothing is already provided. And who cares what matches or doesn't? Everyone is wearing the same classy brand and style.

Unlimited time to write and to think.

I'm pretty sure I can even take some self-help and educational, inspirational classes.

No need for make up or even basic grooming - there are no men around to impress.

More time for a phone call than I currently have.

Sounds good.

Hmmmm. So if I officially rename "prison" to "vacation" do I have to commit a crime to be included in on this sweet deal?