Much ado about much
Hang on tight, folks. I'm right on pace for a whopping thirty-six blog posts this year. Sheesh. Actually forgot my password to Blogger.
Seriously, what is wrong with me? Surely life has more than I've been posting.
And it does. Though it could be argued that it's just more of the same. Perhaps that could explain the extremely low priority of new blog posts in the daily grind, that I'm afraid my lone reader will give up on me for once more venting to cyberspace about my struggle with being gracious to my children.
But there is more to life than that, too.
Like, for example, how Aden is thisclose to being potty trained. On some days. And only if a number two isn't on the horizon. And not at night. But we've come a long way in the last month. He adores his underpants and no longer asks for a chocolate chip reward after every success. We're almost there. And the diaper money will thereafter go into the front porch fund, hallelujah.
It's a good thing too, because preschool for this little pistol is now about five months away. Pray for the preschool, y'all. This is not at all a cut on my boy. I'm just not sure they have seen abundant life the way Aden lives it. His joy and exuberance and determination throw most people off their rocker. One of a kind.
Unbelievably vivid imagination. Ob-sessed with trains. Can whistle. Loves to wrestle until he gets stuck. Fantastic laundry helper. Must must must touch every single last thing his eyes land on. Could eat a whole pound of spaghetti in one sitting. Loves a very small handful of books. Continues to suck his thumb though it is covered with eczema. Knows the location of every American flag within twenty miles of our house. Asks about his grandparents and Nene every morning upon waking up. Thanks God for our house whenever we arrive home from somewhere. Can't wait to be able to go swimming. Does a loud, rousing rendition of "Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed" (while jumping on the bed), except the number of monkeys never goes down.
He's a keeper. A sweet, irritating, stubborn, snuggly, energetic, precious, all-boy gift in our lives. Lord have mercy, what will he become? My baby.
And then my big baby. My Trey Isaiah, tall and handsome and smart. And over the moon for basketball. His poor, decrepit basketball goal, now held together by a generous dose of duct tape and tether straps, follows him around the house. He uses anything with the ability to count down as a basketball clock. The microwave is his favorite, as he can pause the timer when free throws are called for. He keeps score, actual score, with whatever writing implement he can find. He is both teams. He is the referee. He is the announcer. When halftime comes, he is the coach, encouraging-slash-yelling at his imaginary team.
Should this boy have a flesh-and-blood opponent, the game tends to get skewed in his direction. I have lost count of the number of times I've had a technical foul called on me though I was standing ten feet away from both him and the ball. Stinker. And from what I have seen, he's even tougher on the other guys in the family. Poor Poppop gets the worst of it. Or maybe Aden does.
A stickler for schedule. Understands more and more about our faith every day. Keeps track of who acted good and bad throughout the day and prays for both sets of people each night. Refuses to wear a helmet when bike riding. Gets hurt feelings at the drop of a hat. Wants to earn (and spend) money. Admits that he is pretty mean to his brother. Finally got a good snow and helped build a five-foot-plus snowman. Wants a backyard campout for his birthday (I have doubts). Is terrified of the dentist. Has fallen in love with David Crowder Band music, to the delight of both his parents.
So yes, there is stuff going on. We are up to our ears in drama season, as our church is in its fifth year of putting on The Cry of Christ. I am trying not to get caught up in the mechanics of what Easter has become to us, as I spend hours upon hours in a hot, dark, two-square-foot slot of the stage, pulling curtains and moving props and whisper-shouting at actors.
But remembering what was done for me. What my Savior did for me. The older I get, the more it means. His suffering made me free. His blood alone delivered me from certain death, a death I deserved. God sees me as righteous because of Jesus. How can it be? That He was on that cross for me? That as He struggled for breath, Jesus saw every self-centered thought I would have. He saw every time I have yelled at my children. He saw me grumble over my blessings. And He stayed there. Because He loves me that much. How, how can it be?
I am overwhelmed and humbled and thankful to belong to God. To know that this holiday is about so much more than chocolate and a pretend white rabbit. To have even just a glimpse of what that hollow tomb means.
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ!
In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope
through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead. 1 Peter 1:3
A living hope. New birth. Great, great mercy. Thank you, Jesus.
Seriously, what is wrong with me? Surely life has more than I've been posting.
And it does. Though it could be argued that it's just more of the same. Perhaps that could explain the extremely low priority of new blog posts in the daily grind, that I'm afraid my lone reader will give up on me for once more venting to cyberspace about my struggle with being gracious to my children.
But there is more to life than that, too.
Like, for example, how Aden is thisclose to being potty trained. On some days. And only if a number two isn't on the horizon. And not at night. But we've come a long way in the last month. He adores his underpants and no longer asks for a chocolate chip reward after every success. We're almost there. And the diaper money will thereafter go into the front porch fund, hallelujah.
It's a good thing too, because preschool for this little pistol is now about five months away. Pray for the preschool, y'all. This is not at all a cut on my boy. I'm just not sure they have seen abundant life the way Aden lives it. His joy and exuberance and determination throw most people off their rocker. One of a kind.
Unbelievably vivid imagination. Ob-sessed with trains. Can whistle. Loves to wrestle until he gets stuck. Fantastic laundry helper. Must must must touch every single last thing his eyes land on. Could eat a whole pound of spaghetti in one sitting. Loves a very small handful of books. Continues to suck his thumb though it is covered with eczema. Knows the location of every American flag within twenty miles of our house. Asks about his grandparents and Nene every morning upon waking up. Thanks God for our house whenever we arrive home from somewhere. Can't wait to be able to go swimming. Does a loud, rousing rendition of "Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed" (while jumping on the bed), except the number of monkeys never goes down.
He's a keeper. A sweet, irritating, stubborn, snuggly, energetic, precious, all-boy gift in our lives. Lord have mercy, what will he become? My baby.
And then my big baby. My Trey Isaiah, tall and handsome and smart. And over the moon for basketball. His poor, decrepit basketball goal, now held together by a generous dose of duct tape and tether straps, follows him around the house. He uses anything with the ability to count down as a basketball clock. The microwave is his favorite, as he can pause the timer when free throws are called for. He keeps score, actual score, with whatever writing implement he can find. He is both teams. He is the referee. He is the announcer. When halftime comes, he is the coach, encouraging-slash-yelling at his imaginary team.
Should this boy have a flesh-and-blood opponent, the game tends to get skewed in his direction. I have lost count of the number of times I've had a technical foul called on me though I was standing ten feet away from both him and the ball. Stinker. And from what I have seen, he's even tougher on the other guys in the family. Poor Poppop gets the worst of it. Or maybe Aden does.
A stickler for schedule. Understands more and more about our faith every day. Keeps track of who acted good and bad throughout the day and prays for both sets of people each night. Refuses to wear a helmet when bike riding. Gets hurt feelings at the drop of a hat. Wants to earn (and spend) money. Admits that he is pretty mean to his brother. Finally got a good snow and helped build a five-foot-plus snowman. Wants a backyard campout for his birthday (I have doubts). Is terrified of the dentist. Has fallen in love with David Crowder Band music, to the delight of both his parents.
So yes, there is stuff going on. We are up to our ears in drama season, as our church is in its fifth year of putting on The Cry of Christ. I am trying not to get caught up in the mechanics of what Easter has become to us, as I spend hours upon hours in a hot, dark, two-square-foot slot of the stage, pulling curtains and moving props and whisper-shouting at actors.
But remembering what was done for me. What my Savior did for me. The older I get, the more it means. His suffering made me free. His blood alone delivered me from certain death, a death I deserved. God sees me as righteous because of Jesus. How can it be? That He was on that cross for me? That as He struggled for breath, Jesus saw every self-centered thought I would have. He saw every time I have yelled at my children. He saw me grumble over my blessings. And He stayed there. Because He loves me that much. How, how can it be?
I am overwhelmed and humbled and thankful to belong to God. To know that this holiday is about so much more than chocolate and a pretend white rabbit. To have even just a glimpse of what that hollow tomb means.
In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope
through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead. 1 Peter 1:3
A living hope. New birth. Great, great mercy. Thank you, Jesus.
Comments