Back In The Saddle

       Two weeks ago, I started running again. When my youngest saw me, I had expected her to cry and whine about how hungry she was. Instead, her face broke out into a huge smile. It was as if that piece of normalcy reassured her that life would indeed go on just like it did before we had a baby. Our baby wouldn't always be in my arms, trumping her needs. Mommy was still the same mommy despite the bloodshot eyes and slightly shorter fuse.
            I'd be lying if I said that transitioning from four kids to five is easy. Adding a new child is always challenging, and it takes a while to find your new rhythm. Eventually, some of the familiarity returns. Thursday night was the first night in more than two weeks that I've been in bed before 10:00pm. I feel rested this morning for the first time in a long time. Perhaps the bags under my eyes will be going away soon? Other things never go back to "normal"...there are no longer any extra seats in our vehicles when we all ride as one family. Yikes!
          We have celebrated two birthdays this week, back to back  (Tuesday and Wednesday). I now have a three year old and a five year old. Our five year enjoyed a large birthday party complete with aunts and uncles, grandparents, and twenty plus friends last Saturday. It went well considering the circumstances, although present time was a little crazy. Several presents were opened before the cards, and a couple times I had to ask the gift giver to identify themselves. I confess that I found a couple of cards yesterday when I was vacuuming. Oops!
         The one present I had managed to purchase for our five year old to unwrap at her party was wrapped in tissue paper because I had zero birthday wrapping paper (and I didn't have a gift bag large enough for a scooter). I almost copied my ingenious friend who uses newspaper as wrapping paper, but unfortunately the newspaper was downstairs. I was was holed up in my closet upstairs with guests actually arriving on-time while I was still wrapping...so I used tissue paper. Our five year old was thrilled with the scooter.  She didn't care about the lack of real wrapping paper. Then, I felt badly when I realized Monday night that each of the girls only had one present to unwrap for their birthday (they only had that one because my hubby had gone shopping). The lack of presents was easily remedied though by a trip to Target on our five year old's birthday where she picked out the present she really wanted...a bubble machine. Our three year old was equally thrilled to pick out a couple of presents a day early, helping her accept all the attention her sister was getting. I was concerned their birthday wouldn't feel special to them, but they seemed to enjoy this unexpected twist on our normal celebration.
          Thursday, the doctor's office felt crowded with five children in a tiny room...and following the appointment, we had three different prescriptions to pick up for three different conditions--diaper rash, pink eye, and strep throat. I just kept thinking over and over how glad I was that the two highly contagious ones hadn't made their rounds through all five children. We had to make several trips around Walgreens, going through the McDonald's drive-thru and getting gas, in order to keep the baby asleep and still allow them enough time to fill all the prescriptions.
        Also instead of bemoaning the fact that I was late to our appointment, I celebrated that I was ONLY seven minutes late. I know exactly how much effort it took to get everyone fed, dressed, and out the door at 9am with a newborn. If I'm under ten minutes late, I will take it as a little victory. If I am actually on time somewhere, I will expect to see pigs flying by my car.
       Some things have changed, but some things remain the same. It's been 24 hours since we started the antibiotics, so please pass me the "Basic G". It's time to shoot some germs. Mama's back in the saddle again...although I may fall out from time to time.
        

The Post Baby Bump

         Hi! It's the third Thursday blog hop for Hearts at Home. Welcome to my blog! Today's topic is "No More Perfect Bodies". I wrote all about my insecurities about my body during pregnancy in a post a couple months back called "Your So Vein". I'm now 7 weeks out from having a new baby. I loved reading Jill Savage's take on "No More Perfect Bodies". She talks about how society embraces the pregnancy bump, but they also need to embrace the post-pregnancy bump. I've watched my body slowly go back to more of it's former self over the past few weeks; but honestly, I never am quite satisfied.  I asked my hubby when trying on clothes this past Friday if a top made me look "fat". He assured me that it looked great (and thankfully, he always tells the truth in that area...sometimes it even stings a bit). Still, it's been almost a week, and although I've enjoyed wearing the other clothes I bought that evening, I'm still yet to pull it out for fear that maybe he was wrong, or maybe I've had one too many cookies this past week and my "bump" is past what that shirt can handle. I'm always conscious of myself. I've always been that way. I even find myself  wondering what my midsection looks like when I'm sitting down in a group or at the swimming pool. I find myself putting my arms around my waist to disguise what people see. When people comment how great I look post-baby, I feel pressure to maintain that. If they don't comment, I think maybe I don't look good anymore. It like I can't win. I don't think I obsess over this, but I honestly am tempted every day with thoughts to loathe what God has so graciously given me.
        My mom didn't allow me to play with Barbies growing up because she thought they would give me a distorted self image. Well, that didn't work because I rarely remember enjoying how I looked. I've always loathed my legs (my brother used to call me "thunder thighs"), and that is the primary reason that I started running faithfully...I liked the way my legs looked for once. (I've now found what a difference it makes in my attitide and fatigue level, and now I'm hooked for other than liking my legs) I look back now at pictures of me in high school and think how perfect I looked. Someday, I'll probably look back at me in my 30's and think the same thing. There is such a temptations to want more and to never be content.  The women that are older than me that I truly admire for their beauty are not perfect,  but exude a confidence despite their imperfections. So what if they have crows feet? Their smiles light up their eyes. So what if I have age spots? I'm probably more aware of them then anyone else is (except maybe my two year old who daily scrutinizes my face and points to my spots asking me, "What's that? Is it an owie?").
       The fact is that God created me in my mother's womb and saw that "it was good". To despise what He has made me to be is like telling the Master of the universe that He messed up in His creation...that He is somehow wrong. God is perfect. I am not. The sooner that I can appreciate this fact the sooner that I can accept my imperfections and move on to what God has really called me to do...to love others and be His hands and feet. He thinks I'm beautiful post-baby bump and all.

What do you struggle with? I'd love to hear. Please share it below.

Click here to read more blogs in the blog hop.

Cleaning + Unsupervised Two Year Old = Disaster

         I'm challenged daily to let go of my notions of who my kids are and watch who they are developing into. I've had lots of practice relaxing about how my kids dress or comb their hair; although honestly, there are days that I long to stick a bow or braid into my current two year old's hair (her natural curls minus hair accessories cause her to resemble Kramer from Seinfeld more than Shirley Temple). Our children fill my heart with joy at their creativity, but sometimes their ideas can get them into trouble. Our third oldest seems to have an affinity for trouble. If you went to "Girls Night Out" last year for the Hearts at Home National Conference, you may remember a cut up pack 'n play used for the survivor skit...that was our pack 'n play.
        Tomorrow our daughter turns five; and in honor of that, I'd like to share about the incident that will forever live on in our memories as "the day she almost didn't live to see three". My hubby had purchased a lovely large LCD TV during an "after New Year's blowout" sale. I was really tired that day; so when our baby laid down for a nap, I put on a movie for our two year old to watch. When I came downstairs, my heart sank as I saw water on the TV and half of the screen no longer showed a picture, just rainbow colored lines. I asked my two year old why there was water on the TV, and she happily replied that she had lined up her "Lightning McQueen", "Sally", and "Mater" cars to clean them. They were sitting on the entertainment center directly in front of our new TV when she had sprayed them off. I was puzzled why she had "her" cleaning bottle out in the first place, but it quickly made sense when my sock got soaked from an "accident" on the carpet. She knew I was sleeping and wanted to clean up the potty on the carpet. However, I had made it very clear before this that she wasn't allowed to use the spray bottle without me. Apparently, she'd forgotten this or thought that this situation didn't apply. She had no idea that her cleaning project had just cost us well over a thousand dollars. This all happened just a few weeks before my hubby left his good paying (but very unfulfilling) job for a job with a start up company that had great potential but cut his salary nearly in half. I knew a replacement was out of the question.
        I felt sick as I rushed to dry off the TV. I tried turning it off and letting it set; but after picking up our older two from school, it was still the same. I had no idea how my hubby would take the news; and understandably, he was very upset when he came home and heard the news. Our two year old was napping at the time, so he had about thirty minutes to decide how to handle it. He handled it wonderfully and decided that since the destruction was unintentional the only thing she was really in trouble for was using a spray bottle without me. When she came down later, she was given a consequence if she ever broke that rule again. She was pretty upset when she realized she'd broken our new TV. My hubby asked us all take turns talking about mistakes we'd made before, so she'd know she wasn't the only one.
        Clearly, she lived past that day. She never got that spray bottle out again without me, and we have since then replaced the TV. A TV is replaceable, but a child's delicate heart is not. Looking at I Cor. 13 can give us an accurate picture of what our love as Christians is supposed to look like. "Love is patient. Love is kind...Love is not easily angered." May I add to that "even when a brand new TV is ruined".

Have your kids "cleaned" anything and ruined it? I'd love to hear your story below.

Up In Smoke

         If you'd like to read about a really bad day that I handled well, click here to read "Harley and the Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day". Today though, I'd like to be honest with you about how many of my days have gone "up in smoke". It feels good to only write about my successes, but it hardly feels real. Real life consists of the good, bad, and the ugly. Lately, there has been a lot of ugly in mine.
        I've been averaging 5-6 hours of sleep a night (on a good night I get 7, but even then I get woken up an average of three times...and try to keep "the spit-up king" upright for at least 15 minutes after nursing and changing diapers...which is tough). Each "wake-up" usually takes about an hour of my time. I know it could be so much worse, so it seems silly to complain. The poor baby is just 7 weeks old and will do a five hour stretch but sometimes I only catch 2 or 3 hours of it because I'm putting the other four to bed or completing some essential thing that I couldn't do with him in my arms (last night, I stayed up to finally make the birthday cake that I'd been trying to make all day). I know this level of sleep deprivation is temporary and that has been my consolation for the past couple of weeks.
          This is the list of my imperfections and low-points from just this past week: 1) I've yelled at almost everyone daily, including the dog. 2) I can't remember how many times I've been asked why I'm crying. 3) You would probably laugh at all the medical issues I've googled in the past week, assuming that I've maimed my children or we will need surgery to fix my mistakes/worn out body.  I believe in God's power, yet I'm having hard time resting in trust. 4) I'm participating in a study called "Believing God", and as part of the study we divide our lives into fifths to chart the notable events in our lives. Do you know that I have had someone very close to me die in each section (we're talking immediate family or best friend)...and I'm beginning a new fifth. This leaves me wondering "Who'll die next ?"
         I'd also be seriously exaggerating to say that I've been like this all week. Sometimes, I am so weak, but not always. Last Sunday night, I successfully navigated waiting for an extra half hour for pizza (without losing my cool) with a six week old, two year old,  and four year old. I had to wait because I had called the pizza into the wrong location. My infant overflowed his diaper, so I changed, nursed, and  burped him while entertaining two hungry kiddos smelling pizza they couldn't eat. There was no yelling either. This past week, I have kept up with laundry, schoolwork, and bills (though I'm yet to do this month's budget). I've hosted seven family members for an overnighter (although in truth, they handled two of the four meals,, and took care of all the dishes for me). I've sucessfully fed our baby (and kept him clean...which is time-consuming considering all the spit-up), all despite going through two illnesses. I've hugged and kissed my kids and spouse...and apologized to them when I've messed up.
        What is the key in all this mess of sorting through my past week?  I know that I have value, not because of what I've done, but because God says I matter to Him. He takes delight in me and sings over me each night at bedtime. (Zeph. 3:17) He loves me without conditions and despite how much I mess up. (Jer. 31:3 ) What I think about is powerful, and I need to be careful what I choose to dwell on. I've come accross this same scripture three times this week, which is my cue to pay attention and apply it. Philippians 4:18 gives us the perfect filter to pass my blunders all through. It says, " Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true,  whatever is noble, whatever is right,  whatever is pure, whatever is lovely,  whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things." When I choose to only dwell on what is not only true, but noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy, I can no longer beat myself up on all the things I've done wrong. I have to learn from my mistakes and move on. Proverbs 15:15 says, "For the despondent, every day brings trouble; for the happy heart, life is a continual feast." (taken from NLT) Is your life a continual feast? Check the reality of His love for you and what you're thinking about, and I promise your day will go better...hopefully, you can put out the fire before your day goes up in smoke.

What are you struggling with? Feel free to leave it in the comments below, and I will happily pray with you about it.

Fowl Play Afoot At Farm

     It appears that I have ordered boots just in time...although we've had a barn since we moved in July, we are officially turning into a farm (in my mind). My second eldest daughter burst into our room with a huge grin on her face Saturday morning. She announced, "We just bought ten baby chicks and two mallard ducks!" She and my hubby had gone to a local farm store, and they happened to have chicks in. My second eldest delights in animals more then anything, so this was like Christmas in March. I have to admit that they are pretty cute, and we will definitely use the eggs. My hubby and daughter have been talking about chickens since before we moved to the country.  I've always been a huge animal lover as well, but I can't look at an animal the way I did as a child without seeing the potential work attached anymore. I'm slowly turning into my mom...she would call this maturity. The picture included is of me with one of the chicks I named Charlotte. When I put my arm in their pen last night, she happily perched on it. No one else was allowed up which makes me think she is the boss. (The jury is still out on whether or not this is a girl, but I think Charlie would be a great rooster name if my she turns out to be a he.) I know my girls will be happy to take care of them, but I'm less thrilled about the inevitable life-span of chickens.
        Harley was our first pet (here's his story).  Then we added two cats to our lives after we moved to the country (originally there were three--here's what happened to my sweet Giselle). Now we are adding chickens. We keep adding animals that want to eat each other. Looks like we'll need to add some insects to our pet list if we want to complete our "circle of life".
        Psalm 90:12 says, "Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." We all need to be aware that today can be our last. We need to make it count. This is something I struggle with. I get too caught up in the piles of laundry and neglect going outside to enjoy the sunshine. There is a balance, and today I'm trying to find it. This concept of numbering your days was brought especially close to home when my husband's forty something friend had quadruple bypass this past week. That's awfully young to have something that major happen to you physically.  He's doing well considering, but he could have had a very different ending. We don't know what day will be our last.
        Today, I'm going to make time to go to a playgroup and spend a little more time with the chicks and my kids...instead of my washing machine. What will you do differently today?

Cowgirl Boots And My Achy Breaky Heart

        When we came back from Kentucky,  I brought home a strong desire for some cowgirl boots. I think I may have seen one too many horses while there (or spent too much time staring at the local's footwear while waiting to be seated at Applebee's). Thanks to Amazon (and my hubby's enthusiastic approval), I will be getting a pair sometime next Tuesday. It's funny how having a baby can put you in a clothes funk. I've felt a little out of it with choosing clothes. I'm limited to what feels like a small amount of tops and pants that actually fit, and some days I'm so tired it's hard to think straight. Tonight, I went on a date with my hubby though, and I had fun picking out some new tops and jeans...that should look fabulous with my new boots.
        Apparently, that wasn't the only thing I brought home with me. By mid-morning this past Monday, I had a horrific headache.  I very rarely have headaches, but I sometimes get them if I'm running low in sleep. Our one month old was up every hour on the hour from two o'clock on, and since I didn't get to lay my head down for the night till sometime after 11pm, the headache didn't really shock me. If you add to that my whiplash incident from that morning, it was easy for me to understand why I could've had a headache. When I'm in my third trimester of pregnancy, I can barely see my feet; but I'm also blinded following pregnancy to my left foot while carrying a baby. My four year old neglected to put her book away (as I had instructed) and left it on the stairs... so later that morning while holding our newborn, my left foot slipped on the book and went sailing out from underneath me.  I kept my balance though after a momentary jerk, and I only had a bruised elbow to show for it (my daughter had a mini-lecture on listening to Mommy the first time). My headache raged on.
        I went to Walmart to get groceries since my mom and brother's family would be visiting our family the following day; and by the time I left Wal-mart, I felt achy and cold in addition to having a raging headache. I came home to take my temperature, which was indeed a little high, so the baby and I took a nap for the next four hours. I explained to my older girls the rules, which basically boiled down to this: "pretend you're me...think 'what would mommy do'?" They were more than happy to help with the two little ones because they really wanted to get to see their cousins. They know a sick mommy equals no visitors. My second eldest daughter started crying when she heard I was starting to get a fever. They'd been waiting to see their cousins for over 6 months, and my sickness was threatening to ruin it. I told them their only hope was to pray that God would heal me quickly and to be as quiet as possible. I've heard a lot about the debilitating flu that is going around this year, and my family chooses not to get flu shots. The last time I ran a fever was more than four years ago. I rarely get sick, but this felt serious because of how horrible I felt in a very short amount of time.
        My extended family loves me. I know this in my heart, but there is still a part of me that questions if it's really unconditional. Despite my knowlege that God's opinion is the only one that really matters; honestly, my heart still aches for their approval. When I recently read the book "Unglued" by Lysa Terkheurst, I could totally relate to her panic of having her mom visit and trying to make extra sure that everything was acceptable (only to discover to her horror that the toilet seat in the bathroom her mom would be using was missing a seat). There is a part of me that still remembers the messy room I kept as a child, and how my mom would agonize over how messy she could imagine my house would be when I had one of my own. Since then she has told me repeatedly what a great job I do keeping my house clean and tidy, but there is always a nagging voice in my head that insists she doesn't approve of me...or she will be appalled by what my house actually looks like.  Remember, those dust bunnies are still waiting to pounce (although I did try to banish them last week before our trip to Kentucky). I asked God to give me the grace to relax and them the grace to overlook the mess. As I lay in my bed shivering, I was still a little disappointed that my house was such a mess (and I wouldn't be able to do much about it).
          My sister-in-law said that they could maybe just come for a meal (that she would bring and prepare) without staying for the night if I was still feeling badly the next day. This was the first time they would get to see our new little baby, so their family would be disappointed not to come over as well. After my long nap that evening, I no longer felt achy...but my headache was slightly worse. My temperature was higher as well (101.8), but oddly I felt a little better. Amazingly by morning my temperature was back to normal (98.3), so I got up, put a meal together in the crock-pot for supper, and vacuumed (the only cleaning that really needed to be done...a week's worth of dog hair is so nasty). God had answered our prayer because even with activity I never felt worse. My daughters joyfully stripped their bed linens for washing, cleaned their rooms, and cleaned a bathroom. I've never seen them work so cheerfully and quickly.
    We had a great time visiting, and my brother's family brought lots of presents for the baby and us. My mom commented on what a good time she'd had, and later that night I had a good boo-hoo when I thought about how my financially conservative brother (Dave Ramsey has nothing on him) had clearly okay'd the shower of presents that my sister-in-law had so diligently sought out. The truth was and remains that my family just came to see us, not my imperfections. They didn't care. They loved me. I told that to my achy breaky heart and it exploded with happiness (instead of blowing up and killing this woman).

Don't Shoot!

        "Who's down there?", demanded my husband. His voice was void of any friendliness, and I could tell he thought I was a perpetrator. He had caught me in mid-chug, my water bottle quickly emptying it's icy cold contents into my mouth. This was just shortly before having our new baby boy (and a few days after I started making an effort to sleep in my own bed). My life flashed before my eyes, and I tried to quickly tell him that it was his sweet wife, not a burglar. That was a big mistake. I should have waited till the water was out my mouth before trying to talk because that last mouthful of water went into my trachea instead of my esophagus, sending my lungs into spasms. I could just picture my large, intimidating hubby popping around the corner with a handgun poised to unload on the person who had picked the wrong house to break into. My mind was screaming "Don't shoot!", but all that came out of my mouth was a weakly gasped,"It's me."
        During pregnancy, my nose always gets stuffy. This time around it was especially bad, and my family informed that I snored horribly most of my pregnancy.  All that mouth breathing left me very dry in the middle of the night, and this particular night I was especially parched. Our bed lies along a wall next to loud, creaky stairs that are notorious for waking my hubby up. When I woke up, I was so dried out that I decided to risk going down the stairs since my hubby was still sleeping soundly after I snuck out of bed.
        The aspirated water left me soundless and struggling to breathe, but my feet still worked fine. I ran to the stairs to give my hubby visual confirmation that I was indeed no thief, fully expecting to face the barrel of a gun. Thankfully, my husband initially thought I was the dog (which means there was no gun involved...and I tread like a four-legged hundred pound Weimeraner when I'm 37 weeks pregnant). As he stood on the stairs, he had seen a dim light come on and then fade...which made him think someone was in the refrigerator and clearly ruled out the dog. He didn't think anyone would really break in just to raid our refrigerator, so he then guessed it was one of our older girls. He was a little surprised to see my startled face pop around the corner. As we headed back to bed, we both had a really good laugh.
         It's funny how our perceptions affect situations. Remember how I thought we were going to a hotel with laundry facilities? Well, yesterday, I found out that the listing of laundry amenities didn't include an on-site washing machine.  Our two year old had overflowed her diaper an hour before arriving at our hotel, but I wasn't worried because I knew I could wash it, right? Wrong! When I brought a load down to the front desk asking where the washing machine was, the clerk informed me that they could do a load of laundry for me if I'd agree to a charge of $10 being added to our room bill. I decided to go the old-fashioned route and wash the car seat cover in the bathtub. Good thing I brought the laundry soap. I didn't really have to wash burp rags as I had anticipated because my very astute friend pointed out that hotel hand towels work great for that purpose. I have enjoyed using their laundry cart instead of my supply of cloths from home. If I had known there was no washing machine, I wouldn't have come. I would've missed out big time on having fun eating out, hanging out, and watching the girls try their hand at embroidery. Sometimes it's nice not to see all the work I could be doing, so I can relax. I'm so glad I came without knowing what lay ahead. God promises that "all things work together for good to those who love God" (Romans 8:28), and this one adventure I'm glad I didn't miss.

Sour Milk and the Spit-up King

        The past couple weeks have given us a new all-time record for going through laundry soap. Our container labeled to hold enough soap for 100 loads has disappeared in just under two weeks, which means we have been averaging a lot more loads per day than our usual 2-3. I have been pretty aware of this increase on the days that I have been moving over laundry at 2am just to keep on top of things. Might I just mention that I am super thankful for our 2nd floor laundry room. I can only imagine how much harder it would've been going up and down the stairs at all hours of the night.
         Everyone expects more laundry when a baby arrives. I've had my share of babies that have blowouts, but that's not the problem this time. My son seems to be a sort of spit-up champ. Last night he went through 5 bibs, and 3 burp rags in less than 30 minutes (plus I had to change shirts--twice). At one point yesterday, I was using blankets as burp rags while I waited for a load of cloths and bibs to finish drying. I'm thankful he doesn't seem too bothered by it, but the almost constant smell of sour milk around him makes me want to gag. His little neck and face (and hands) get washed at least twice a day depending on how much he is awake. Being awake seems to equal spitting up for him. I'm thankful that this stage will pass as he matures and adds food to his diet.,
         I've learned a few things from my previous four kids though...like keeping him upright for 15 to 20 minutes after nursing helps him spit up less when I lay him down or letting him nurse on the same side during his fussiest time for an hour or two before switching sides satisfies his need for comfort without overloading his stomach (plus he gets the richer hind milk that he doesn't seem to spit up as much on). Still, I have to admit that it was a little frustrating having him spit-up in my freshly washed hair twice last week when I was headed for a mom's night out.
         We are taking a mini-vacation to Kentucky starting tomorrow; and before committing to go, I had to verify the hotel has laundry faculties. I don't own enough clothes or cloths (or bibs) to guarantee we can make it three days without a washing machine. His spitting up almost made me say no to even going. Then I thought of staying home and all the meals I will feel obliged to make (that probably will be late like every other meal I've made this past week). I thought of the break from my normal routine that I can have, giving me permission to not think about the dust piling up and maybe even enjoy a movie or two with my family.
         Every day we are given a choice whether to trust that God will help us through our challenges or to try to minimize our risks and play it safe. Our son's name means "strong and courageous...", and I'm claiming Joshua 1:9 as a life verse for him (and for this weekend for me). It says, "Have not I commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go." This day,  I'm choosing to enjoy it...spit-up and all. I'm packing some soap and the clean clothes I have. I'm not going to sit home crying in frustration over all the work piling up while I wash more things with spit-up on them. After all, there's no use crying over spilled milk.

The Friend In The Night

        Most of my life with my dad, I remember him working at a radio station. He pastored a small church on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights, but the rest of his job consisted of a show he did for our local AM radio station from Midnight to 6 am.
         His show was called "The Friend In The Night". He played Southern Gospel music, held Bible quizzes, and talked his heart out. He was a perfect fit for this job because it combined two of his greatest loves...listening to Southern Gospel music (he was in a band as a teenager called the "Country Cut-up's, and they were good enough to play at the Grand Ole Opry and were on the same night as Loretta Lynn) and talking to people about God. I was 13 and 1/2 when he died and he hosted this show for about ten years. Some of my fondest childhood memories were of going to bed early on school holidays and tagging along to the radio station with my dad. I loved picking out records, grabbing cup after pointy, cone cup of filtered water, talking about my cats, but, most of all, watching him work. He loved his job. Of course, having no supervision while he was on air did get me into trouble a few times. One night my older brother came with me and we went through every last pointy water filter cup within a few hours. We got yelled at for that one. I also remember there was a statue of a dalmatian that stood between the break room and the studio, and I was terrified it would come to life and bite me (I'm pretty sure my brother planted that idea in my head).  My dad was rather concerned one time when he realized I had been absent for more than an hour. I was paralyzed with fear staring at the statue.
         My dad was much more gifted with gab than I am, and I remember him coaching me not to talk so much about my cats dying and more about fun things I did with them. It was true they died, but that's not what listeners in the middle of the night really wanted to hear about. I admit that I'm a bit of a melancholy.
         My favorite memory though is going to be the local bakery afterwards for a creme-filled long John. We hardly ever ate out or had sugary things at home because it made my mom sick, so it was a real treat.
        My mom thought he'd made a mistake when the Mennonite church he'd been pastoring made him choose between being their pastor and working at the radio station because he chose the radio station. She now acknowledges that this was truly a God-ordained appointment (given the popularity of the show and the ministry he had as a result). This was his calling. I try to keep this in the back of my head every time my hubby looks into a new job.  This could be his "radio station". His theme song for the show was "Give Me A Song To Sing At Midnight" by the Kingsmen (I tried to find a sound clip to link to, but the closest I could find was this cover that the Dunneman's did).
        This past weekend our church launched a new series called "30 Days in the Word". I immediately began an internal dialogue with God about how I had no time to add this to the Bible study I already spend 30 minutes a day on plus the 15 minutes per school day that I spend reading to the girls from the Bible. Our pastor had the chair where he does his Bible reading from on stage to show us his place for communing with God. During the sermon, our pastor repeatedly asked "Where's your chair?". I replied in my head about the couch I typically use, but I began thinking about my rocking chair I nurse our baby in. The Holy Spirit reminded me that just that morning I had been wondering if there was something better to that I could do while nursing, burping, and keeping him upright for 15 minutes after each feeding (which helps dramatically with his spitting up and his reawakening when I lay him down). I had been spending a good deal of time on Facebook and Amazon to distract me from how tired I was while I was waiting to go back to sleep. Both tend to stir me up though and make it harder to go back to sleep. Then, I told God my last excuse, "How can I read my Bible in the dark?" and He reminded me of the free Logos app I had on my phone.
         This week, my rocking chair has been my new chair...and I've had no problem adding the recommended reading into my schedule. If you'd like to join me, check out this link for the reading plan.

      It has given me a new Friend in the night. So where's your chair?