A Day of Thanks

So, I was side tracked by a stomach flu this week. It stopped a planned trip to visit family in Michigan for me and Trinity. Then it didn't make sense for Parker to go, so he stayed with me as well. My husband took the two oldest children with him and my mother in law took Jack and Evie. By mid-morning, Evie came back since she was sick. I was disappointed to be "alone" on the holiday to say the least. That was, until, I decided to have "guests" over.

I hadn't shopped for groceries, but my husband was kind enough to pick up a few things before he left. The rest was up to me. Since I was having company, I needed to clean the house. I started first thing in the morning and watched the Parade while trying to catch up on a few days of no maintenance in the house. I scrubbed the floors, dusted and vacuumed. Then when that was finished, I made the turkey and side dishes. I set the table, baked the rolls and put the pie in to heat up. As the turkey was "resting" I ran upstairs, slipped into my best Ann Taylor dress, doubled up on the perfume so I didn't smell like eau d'gravy and put on some lipstick. I lit the candles just as my guests "arrived". They had been looking forward to a nice, traditional Thanksgiving dinner and I did not want to disappoint.

We sat down and they were gracious enough to pray for our meal. It was a great time to spend together. We had a wonderful evening and I was reminded that I was not alone. So often we treat strangers better than our own family. Once in a while, polish the silver for them.

DirtyLaundry Cont.

Although there is much more to say on this topic, I am growing weary. It's difficult to write about depression when one is in the midst of an 'episode'. I don't feel well and therefore the last thing I want to do is enlighten people on my theories of the root of depression. In an earlier post, I wrote that the last way I would describe the act of suicide is 'selfish'. I still agree with this although I am realizing how egocentric I become when depressed. My thoughts are consumed with how much pain I am in and how everything around me sabotages my mental state. Nothing goes my way and there is no positive outcome to any situation. I cannot be broken from the cycle of swirling despair because I need to feel it. As miserable as I am, I will not give in to the Pollyanna that lies within. She is to be denied access to this dark world.

I cannot let go of the anger, pain, sadness. If I do,I may be hurt on an even deeper level. A place where optimism and naivety reign. That, I feel, is a place I would not heal from. So, I wear my depression as a suit of armor. It is heavy and awkward. But like an Elvin cloak, it hides me from unfriendly eyes.

Dirty Laundry Part 3

This series,although hardly yet a series,is bothering me. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there is not the same motivation I had when I started. With the recent election results, I feel a release of angst. I think the tension of being in a battle ground state actually added to my depression. It sounds strange to allow television ads and pundits control one's mood, but I internalize things so deeply. If I get upset about something one of the hotheaded women say on "The View", I'll mull it over for days. It's ridiculous and it is a character flaw I am not proud of.

I wish things could roll off my back, but they don't. That is why I am so prone to depression. The sadness, anger and tension of the world around me is absorbed in an unusual way. It is only heightened because I stay at home. When TV and Yahoo news are your only connection to adult issues and connection, the world can become a very dark place. I am not outgoing socially. Because I do internalize things and tend to take them way too personally, I have been unable to form deep meaningful relationships with those around me. I will not be vulnerable to other women.


Growing up in a household of 7 females including myself, I know full well the impact that the female relationship has on me. I am the youngest of my family by almost a decade therefore I had 5 additional 'mothers' at various times. My birth order has played a HUGE role in my life. I'm a big believer in the birth order philosophy. I have a unique situation because I have the tendencies of a first born [because when there is more than 5 years between siblings, you start birth order over again]and yet all the tendencies of a baby of the family. This is why so many times I thought I suffered from bi polar or borderline personality disorder. Really it is just my temperament that varies so drastically.

I will probably expand on this more as I explore my reasons for the epidemic of depression in young moms. Not all of us have the same birth order of course, but it shapes who we are and it is worth examination.


This might be a fun thing to check out:

http://www.blogthings.com/birthorderpredictorquiz/

In the Beginning......Dirty Laundry Part Deux

OK - to quote one of my favorite films of all time: "let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start...."
On Saturday, I was driving home from the grocery store and Jack was arguing with Evie about some random act of nature that "not even God could stop". I can't tell you exactly what their conversation entailed because half the time, I am oblivious to their banter. But I heard that part and it piqued my interest, and Aslan's as well. Aslan and I both responded. "He can do anything Jack, He's God." "Nah-uh!" Jack quipped - this ought to be good I thought - "God cannot kill himself." What? WOW. He was right.

So then my children debated the issue of whether or not God could indeed kill Himself and of course we came to the conclusion that since He is not human, or created, He cannot die. Then we got into the whole incarnation and although Jesus died He rose again....ad infinitum.

This is not typical 'going home from the grocery store' conversation mind you. I don't want readers to think that my children are perpetual philosophers. But at the same time, these kind of conversations are not special - they are....natural.
So the conversation shifted. It went to a dark place. Suicide. The children made light of it, but I had to do something I had never done before. Tell them that not everyone that commits suicide would go to heaven. (Because Jack said that if you kill yourself you will be in heaven with God forever and I didn't want them to accept that) This puzzled them because death to them equals eternity in heaven. I could not allow them to continue the conversation in a light hearted way simply because it is too painful a subject.


I've lived with suicidal tendencies since I was about 4 or 5 years old.


For the first time in my life, I admitted that suicide CAN be sinful. I said it to my children and therefore the words are like coming from the mouth of God himself to them. I am overly cautious about influencing them on conscience formation. I try to not be black and white on many issues. I try to teach them to look at things from a global perspective and find the root of a problem they are having. I believe in de-briding all wounds in our household. I am probably on overkill most of the time, but I care deeply about their mental health; not unlike a wealthy person who was desperately poor as a child lavishes their own offspring with excessive material goods. But there is reason behind this attitude. And for someone who has battled the desire and even attempted suicide, it was hard to admit it might be wrong. It's my security blanket. It is the hidden bottle of vodka for the alcoholic to me. The "just in case" resolution if things get to hard to handle. To say out loud that one should not commit suicide was HUGE for me. I have deep deep empathy for those who take their lives and I am incapable of making any judgment on whether it was sinful on their part, because I am convinced that mental illness does not allow them to think rationally. And sometimes the pain is so unbearable.

I despise it when people use the term "i'm going to blow my brains out" or "if such and such happens, (or doesn't happen)I'll kill myself!" I don't think it's funny. And if I hear the old adage "that [suicide] is so selfish", I cringe with rage. The last time I checked, people who are selfish really care about, well, themselves. Self-love is a common definition. How much must you hate someone to kill them? It's not selfishness, it's hating yourself so much that you don't want anyone you DO love to have to put up with you. It's hopeless, yes, but please, not selfish.


Last week my mom asked me why I had been through so much therapy.

It was the first time in my life that my mother showed an interest in my mental health. It was to say the least, surreal.


I'm so hard wired that suicide both disgusts and fascinates me. In the sixth grade,I did a science project on the subject of teenage suicide and depression. My teachers saw a red flag and suggested counseling. My parents disagreed and bought me a puppy instead. She [the dog] became my confidant when I felt no one else would listen. I LOVED that dog. Four years later my parents took that dog away from me without warning or a goodbye because my mom couldn't deal with the dog having a bladder infection. These types of situations were so cyclical in my life that I never really could heal from one before the rug was pulled out from under me again.

Wait....what was my point? Oh Yeah, WHY DID I NEED THERAPY???? GEE MOM, I DON'T KNOW!

Then I explained a few things to my mom about why I had needed therapy and my distrust of loved ones for fear of being hurt {psychobabble, blah blah blah}


I've had a fundamental change in my life. That's why I can write about all this ugliness. At the beginning of the month, I went to a well known faith healer. He is a modest man who travels the Eastern part of the country - I believe with all of my heart that God used this man to close some gaping, putrid wounds in my psyche.

There is healing, there is hope.

But, my favorite therapist told me once that healing from depression is a journey that takes the rough, painful path. Not the easy one that skirts issues. You need to wade and wallow in your pain sometimes so that you can know it, and recognize it when it rears its ugly head.

I've been knee deep in my own lake of despair for long enough. I have made the decision not to go under. I walk out now and admire the beauty that the pain gave me. Wisdom was what Solomon wanted more than any other earthly possession. Now I know why; it's priceless. My children will not ever have to feel disconnected the way I did. I know how to stop it. I know the signs and I know pain. That to me, is a muse for living life.







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Dirty Laundry - Part one

I have been in contemplative thought for a few weeks now. Is it coincidental that homecomings are held in October and many people feel nostalgic this time of year? I usually get very reflective near New Year's as I prepare to set goals for the coming year and reprise which ones I've accomplished or "re-routed" {i will not say 'failed to meet' for self deprecation is no longer a part of my lifestyle} In all seriousness, I have decided to blog a series on the subject of depression. Recently a statistic I read stated that the growing number of suicide is among white, middle aged women.

http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/10/081021093938.html


As sobering as the information was, it relieved me. It made me feel as though I'm not the only one that battles with these demons. Depression is a subject I have exhausted over the last 20 years through thought, work, research and reading. My diagnosis has ranged from clinical depression to dysthimia to post traumatic stress disorder, major depression, double depression, seasonal affective disorder and post partum depression. I've tried everything for treatment: therapy, anti-depressants, reiki, guided imagery, detoxing, prayer & meditation, hospitalization, NET therapy, faith healing, vitamins and supplements, hormonal therapy and just trying to 'get over it.' All treatments play a role in the whole picture of recovery. I am a big believer in "leave no stone unturned". Have I found the 'cure all'? Sadly, no.

I've gained something more precious: experience. I am now willing to share that through this medium. My journey has at times been ugly, very ugly. But one cannot begin to explore depression through rose colored glasses. Part of the reason that so many women in particular are depressed is because we fail to admit the inequities of our souls. We are screaming and miserable inside and cannot find our voice. I want to break the radio silence. It's my dirty laundry and it's time to air it.

Little Women

I previously posted about Evie being beyond her years. She has a tendency to sound so adult in her cadence, it's at times, annoying. I think the reason that it gets on my nerves so much is because I know, deep down, she is parroting me. She'll casually mention that she has the hiccups, then about one minute later, she'll say: "Mom? Why aren't you getting me peanut butter?" (which my DH has convinced the children is the cure all for hiccups) She questions my abilities constantly and incessantly interrogates intentions. I know she has picked this up from hearing me always ask rhetorical questions in an annoyed tone. If I'm not johnny on the spot for her, I'll hear about it. She is bossy but bright. Very bright.
She reminds us of Gab at her age. Gabby could carry on a conversation with you when she was 18 months old. Not exaggerating here! We often had to remind ourselves how old she actually was. When we think back to that time in our lives, we have many regrets on how harshly we treated her. Her verbal acuity did not match her cognitive ability and so we often expected too much from her. I learned my lesson and so I apply it now to Evie. I slip up sometimes, and feel badly. But I could learn a lesson from Gabby once again. Recently she wrote something in her journal that she shared with me:


You can hear my heart sing out loud, but you can also hear
my soul quiet down. Sometimes they laugh at me cause I make mistakes but it's okay because everybody makes mistakes.



I would like to take the credit for teaching her that it's ok to make mistakes. But my perfectionistic manner cannot claim such lovingkindness. I thank the Lord that somehow, my children are learning forgiveness, somewhere.

Big Families

On any given day, in any public situation, I am barraged with comments. Store clerks, patrons, people in parking lots, they all feel obliged to ask me "are they ALL YOURS?" I usually reply with a simple smile and a 'yes'. When caught off guard and in a bad mood, sometimes my sardonic answer is 'yes, but they all have different fathers.' Sometimes, it's not a question,it's a comment. "You have your hands full!" (Really? I hadn't noticed, I'd speak to you if my car keys weren't in my mouth) "God BLESS you! (As if to say He already hasn't with 6 healthy children!) or my all time favorite -"Are you done?" (With what? My lunch?) If I asked a complete stranger if they were on contraceptives, it would be considered rude and an invasion of their privacy. Yet many people feel entitled to ask me intimate questions about my family planning. I don't judge these people, but they feel compelled to tell me "why" they couldn't do it [have six children] Honestly, I did not ask to hear their stories, but they tell me about their tubal ligations and vasectomies anyway. "We're done!! They scoff. "There's no way!" I am convinced that it is to alleviate their own guilt. I don't judge anyone on their family size (though I admit I am partial to those who let God determine the number of offspring) I have known people who cannot conceive and are judged harshly for "only having one" but they long for a large family. I have known others who reject the gift of a child through the act of abortion. The point is, family planning is a deeply intimate spiritual practice for me. So if you see me in the grocery store with my caravan of kiddos, just smile and say hello - let's leave it at that.
Since this entry has a bit of an acidic flavor - I will add something I wrote 5 years ago when pregnant with my fourth - it was cathartic. I never said it was easy to accept each child, but grace is infinite.



WHAT MY CHILDREN HAVE LEARNED FROM HAVING A LARGE FAMILY:

To repair things, not replace them.



To say, "you're welcome" as much as they say "thank you"



That ALL breakfast cereal comes in a bag anyway.



That with a little stain remover, it can be as good as new.



That they call the carpenter, coach, and contractor by the same name; Daddy



They call the tutor, the tailor and the treasurer by the same name; Mommy



That Easter and Christmas are about Christ, not candy.



That Love is an action, not an emotion.



That people are much more important than possessions.



That star gazing and nature walks are more memorable than movies and arcade games.



That imagination costs nothing, but is priceless.



That sharing is not an option, but necessary.



That unless it's your birthday, the clothes are not brand new.



That cable is a luxury, not a staple.



That the TV has an "off" button.



THE THINGS I'VE LEARNED:



I'd rather have a dent in my minivan, than in my chastity.



My home is a reflection of my heart, not my bank account



God is never impressed by a financial portfolio.



Trials are temporary, souls are eternal



Grace is more powerful than the bottom line



People who criticize family size are often poor in virtue.



Money is a tool - our relationship with it is what shapes who we are.



I'd rather be showered with a dandelion bouquet than roses from a suitor.



The world is an exciting place through the eyes of each child.



Today may be the day that is etched in their memories forever.



"Please" and "thank you" are not reserved for company.



Saying "I'm sorry" shows a humility that cannot be taught.



Children do not judge beauty with worldly eyes.



Sleep is more precious than entertainment.



My womb is a gift from God



Saying "yes" to life could change the world.

Lonely

Last week I had a bit of a stomach virus that really wiped me. I was not feeling well at all and for some reason, I was wiped emotionally too. Trinity complained of a bellyache the same day so I thought she may have the same illness. She ate and played quite contentedly with Evie, so she wasn’t really sick. Later in the morning I went into the girls’ room to check on them and the door was shut tight and they gave me a look that said “why are you interrupting?” They were deep in imaginative play and I had disturbed their reverie. I felt badly about this, but I needed to get Trinity ready for school. My afternoon would be less work with one less child and I desperately needed the break.
“But I just want to play with Evie, Mum,” was Trinity’s plight.

The daily grind has been emotionally excruciating for me as of late. I spend days upon days not leaving the house, with no outside contact. I wait for 5:30 like a pre-millenialist waits for the second coming; with both fear and elation. I make desperate attempts at 4:30 to clean up the entire day’s mess and meals whilst trying to supervise homework and deal with the witching hour’s bickering. When he walks in that door it is both my judgment and salvation. Great foreplay, no?

Unable to pinpoint my malaise, I’ve been aimless, unmotivated. I can’t blame the weather – September has been gorgeous here in the ‘Burgh. Granted, I try to reduce my driving as much as possible with a 17 mpg bus, but is it worth my disposition to save a few bucks? I haven’t been to the gym in 2 weeks because either I or someone else has been sick.

Never one to deny a “mental health day”, the girls, I decided, needed time together. Evie had not complained once in three weeks about Trin going to school, and Trin had not once complained that she didn’t want to go. These two little ones often fight and love really hard being only 15 months apart. But it was Evie that convinced me that they needed each other. When I looked at Trinity with a “but you have school today” look, Evie objected on her own behalf. In her little, eloquent and oh-so-beyond-her-years vernacular, she said what was crying on my heart: “Mom? (pause) I just don’t want to be alone.” I know Evie, nobody does.

Holistic Motherhood

Recently at my local library’s story time, I spoke with a woman who was literally days away from her due date. She had brought her 2 year old son and her mother to the weekly meeting, despite her obvious fetal girth. By the posture and flexibility of this mom-to-be, you could tell that she was uninhibited by the gestation. I overheard her saying she was using a midwife for the delivery and instantly I knew we were comrades in childbirth.

I approached her and confessed what I had overheard. “Did you say that you are using a midwife?” I inquired with the bated breath of a ‘here comes a birth story’ pause.

She replied with a simple nod and an arched eyebrow that was the universal mommyspeak for ‘go ahead, I’m listening.’

That was all I needed and the spiquot of my mouth was running freely.

We shared briefly our experiences with natural birth and I assured her that it was 90% mental and she added “and a bit of luck.” There is an instant maternal understanding and bond between women who have opted for natural childbirth. We “get” each other and more often than not, we are in cohesion with our parenting techniques and general care of our little ones. I’ve yet to meet a mom who forgoes the epidural that does not breastfeed. And most women who choose homebirth also co-sleep or practice some degree of attachment parenting. We are a sub culture of naturalists. We are tuned in to the rhythm of new life and do our best to respect the ebb and flow of nature’s tide.

There are some naysayers of course. A mom or two within earshot of our conversation shook their heads in disbelief and offered the “give me drugs!” slogan. As with any cultural shift from the norm, there is always someone willing to criticize your choices as being “crazy” or ironically termed “unnatural”. But I am beginning to witness a shift in the view of mainstream media and western culture. It’s a small shift, but it’s there.

The issue of breastfeeding has made such headway in the last 10-15 years that it is now considered the obvious choice for a new mother. The “expected” choice. As soon as one mentions co-sleeping or baby wearing though, you are in unchartered land, so to speak. Go a step further and mention that you don’t plan on vaccinating, and you open yourself up to a cacophony of criticism.

I am surprised though, at the subtle changes I see. Last week, my husband came home with a mainstream brand of iced tea from the local wholesale club and its label boasted of “No artificial colors or flavors added”. Sure enough, the list of ingredients was all natural and it still pleased my children. This was surprising to me, however, in some way I thought 'it’s about time someone start listening to us!' The 'us' being the moms who are sick and tired of our children being bombarded with high fructose corn syrup and Red #40. Not all of us have a Whole Foods within a 5 mile radius or a decent organic section in our local grocery. And even those of us who do are strapped to pick which produce we can afford this week with skyrocketing prices. We are no longer a silent minority. We need to speak as consumers who will no longer be force fed (pun intended) this barrage of garbage. Talk to your local school system about the lunch program. Make sure that heinously dyed drinks are not served at school, church gatherings and sport outings. There are alternatives and we must demand them. It starts with a small step. It starts with one conversation. We cannot continue to complain about childhood obesity, ADHD, the autism spectrum disorders and the alarming increase in Type 2 diabetes and not take action. Complain when something is being served that you feel is inappropriate for your child to consume. Mothers are the ones who always get things done anyway. If it has made a difference in your house, take the message beyond your four walls. Make your mark. The tides are turning and we need to be ready to ride the wave and witness well to the more wholesome choices we’ve made.

I have found it very helpful when advocating such a lifestyle to be able to pull valid statistics from my mothering hat: the current rate of diagnosis for ADHD, the growing number of children with Type 2 diabetes and so on. Whatever you are defending, be sure you have the facts to back it up. Keep in mind that your validity is only as strong as your child is well behaved. Start talking about too much processed food with your three year old running around and screaming like a banshee and out your opinion goes like yesterday’s compost.

What I’m trying to convey is that so many people who adopt a gentler lifestyle, tend to neglect boundaries and discipline. We all have a friend who lets her child do what he pleases so as to not upset his “emotional freedom”. You know the one I’m talking about. He has never had refined sugar (Heaven forbid!) but calls his mother “stupid” and demands her undivided attention at his whim. It’s that kid who makes us all look bad. This is not responsible parenting. We do not need to strike or abuse our children to be firm. If you are willing to say “no” to the sugar laced colorful cereals, then by all means, take it a step further. We cannot be a voice for natural parenting with a bunch of future sociopaths underfoot.

Yes, I exaggerate the situation, but not to undermine my own observations, there is a trend within those who practice attachment parenting to be overzealous about allowing their children to do as they please. I find these particular children to be demanding, self centered and lack empathy. As in nature, there is always a balance. One cannot lean toward one side completely, without tipping over.

In order to be a stronger voice for the lifestyle and empowerment that is full motherhood, you must be a strong witness to the success of your choices. If you are struggling with behavioral issues and you can rule out any dietary factors you need to look within at your parenting technique. Are you too lenient or are you too obsessive about poor diet choices? Children do need some autonomy and for sure they need boundaries for security. Part of mothering fully means being able to respect your intuition enough to know when you are making a decision for your own comfort despite the consequence to your child. For example, is it easier to let junior just dump out the entire laundry basket because that is what he wants to play with rather than to show him how we put clothes away first and then use the basket for fun? Or, if we are visiting a friend, to allow our four year old daughter to boss around all the preschoolers present because we don’t want to have to discipline in front of another person? There are ways to teach and direct without bruising the child’s ego or embarrassing ourselves.

Where is this fear (and that’s what it boils down to) of our children stemming from? Why are so many parents afraid to limit their childrens' behavior? Many people that I am acquainted with who lean toward what I coin 'holistic parenting' come from a home where their voice was not heard. They were told when to speak, when to listen and when to simply disappear. Many have come from borderline abusive homes where children were treated a step above cattle. These parents are adamant about breaking the generational chain of authoritarianism. I agree with them that there needs to be a change, but lean too far in the opposite direction and you’ll plant the family tree in the soil of discontent. There are others who had no boundaries whatsoever as children and they continue the lineage of permissiveness. Either side is bound to have difficulty arguing their case for natural parenting. Finding the middle ground, moderation, safe boundaries and autonomy are keys to unlocking your child’s full potential. Balancing these is an art form - it is your calling. Find your mother voice and use it as a tool to raise healthy, self reliant compassionate adults. To my comrades I say: Let us be a beacon of wisdom and not a sitting duck for critique!

Little Black Dress

When I was 18 years old I worked in downtown Boston at one of the most well known clothing stores in the city. Because we were so centrally located and right on a transit stop, we were never at a loss for customers. In the dresses and suits department, we were bombarded with people; mostly women who would come in on their lunch hour from their high powered city jobs. They needed to dress professionally and this store supplied the demand. Our clientele was as diverse as the merchandise.

We had an eclectic selection; pant suits, bohemian dresses, simpler sportswear, and even samples from the top New York designers’ runway shows. Annually, we would have a one day wedding dress sale that usually attracted the local news stations because it was such a momentous event. People would line up at the doors hours and hours before opening, to grab everything they could off the racks. Women would change clothes in the middle of the store because actually getting into the fitting room seemed like a farce.

I even witnessed women assaulting one another over a particular gown!

Because our selections were so diverse and sales were never at a lull, the store had a unique way to move merchandise off the floor. Every piece of clothing was dated on the tag before it hit the rack. There was a six week “shelf life” on each item. For the first two weeks, it remained the original price (although it was usually lower than standard retail). On week three, it was marked down 25 per cent, on week four 50 per cent, on week five 75 per cent and then on week six, the item was donated to charity. So even if you knew that a piece of clothing was going to be marked down, you never knew if it would be there the next day.

Being in women’s clothing when I was single and living at home was like every girl’s dream. One of the perks of working at this particular store was that they gave their employees a generous 25 per cent discount. Another was that I was about a two minute walk from a Franciscan church that had masses every half hour. I could easily take a break and get to daily Mass and confessions were heard all day long. Recently having had a conversion experience, I spent my day deep in conversational prayer getting to know my Lord. My duty was recovery (replacing merchandise to its proper place). Recovery was constant in this store. You spent practically all day straightening out the racks and racks of clothing. It was the easiest way to shop or pray while working. You became so familiar with the merchandise that anything new stood out as obvious. Practically every one of my paychecks was spent building a fantastic wardrobe. I bought designer suits and sample dresses for pennies on the dollar. This came in very handy a couple of years later when I worked at an investment firm with a very strict dress code. Even then, God was planting seeds and I was unaware of His providence. Looking back, I see His hand weaving small threads in my life’s tapestry. On one particular occasion, I was very aware of His presence in my life.

It was a Wednesday afternoon in early fall. The exclusive dresses (which is what we called the higher end samples) usually came in from designer’s studios and there were only one or maybe two of a particular style. They were rare and they were usually only made in size four. Many moons ago and before six children, I was a size four. That’s when I saw it. Among the exclusive dresses was the perfect dress. I had to have this dress. It was just right, not too long, not too short, beautiful lines, wonderful fabric, dress it up or down – it was like the Holy Grail, a staple, a perfect foundation piece for any women’s wardrobe. I looked at the tag. The next day it was due for a 75 per cent markdown. With my employee discount on top of that, I could easily afford it. I would wait. That was a risk I was willing to take. Despite my recent conversion, I still had worldly vices. I took the dress and stashed it in a rack where it didn’t belong. I put it with the larger sizes in casual clothing. It would easily last a day there. It was safe from any other consumer.

The next day I went to retrieve my treasure. It was gone. I frantically searched the rack. Not in sight. I went back to the exclusive rack. It was nowhere to be found. Perhaps another employee moved it. I spent the better part of an afternoon, tirelessly hunting down that dress. I ignored my duties in search of vanity. Nothing. I knew that no other dress like that one was ever going to come along. Not one I could ever afford anyway. Besides, this was my dress, I had claimed it and I was angry. A gentle voice came to me and asked “Why do you hold a mere possession so dearly?” “Would you be as angry or hurt if you were in danger of losing me?” It was then I realized that I took my gift of faith for granted. I had been given a truly priceless, rare gift by God, but I did not fear anyone taking it from me or losing it. I responded in prayer “But Lord, you know how much I wanted that dress. It was perfect!” He softly said “Then how much more it would mean, if you could let it go as a gift to me.” My heart swelled and my anger melted as I released the dress as an offering to Him. I had been wrong to hide it, dishonest and disloyal to my employer. I went about my duties for the rest of the day and went home.

I rose at sunlight and reported to work before opening and starting pulling the dresses that needed to be marked down. The repetitive scrape of the hangers on poles made for a rhythmic morning. I was determined to work twice as hard today in reparation of wasting time the day before. On the casual rack I went about my business and literally exactly where I had put it two days prior, was the black dress! I had searched that rack a dozen times the day before and it was not there. How it ended up precisely where I had left it is beyond explanation. I was moved to tears as I considered what a surprise I was being given. It reminded me of the Gospel story of the rich man and Lazarus. Jesus tells us that a rich man and a poor man, Lazarus both die. While the poor man is sitting with Father Abraham, the rich man is in the unquenchable fire. He asks to go back to warn his brothers that they will share his fate if they do not change their way. He is denied the request because a warning would not change their hearts. Later in Luke’s gospel we are shown that our Lord did still grant the wish of raising someone from the dead and that man happens to be named Lazarus. We are given what we want even when we really don’t deserve it. That is how much God loves us.

With sheer joy I picked up the dress, felt its fabric against my skin, held it up to my figure in the full length mirror and admired its beauty. I imagined all the events I could wear it to and the compliments I would receive. Then I promptly hung it up on the exclusive rack where it belonged. Over the years I’ve gotten more wear from that lesson than the dress could have ever provided. No matter how perfect it was, it was not as perfect as His gift of love.

Candy

Candy

I’m not trying to be sarcastic or sardonic, but honestly - can a dog be retarded?

I have never seen a puppy so laid back as our newest addition, Candy. She is a border collie mix. A border collie - no doubt! - that is EXTREMELY subdued. My husband and I are thinking something is wrong with her.

She got a clean bill of health from our vet, and she actually does run occasionally in the yard when I throw a ball or frisbee, but other than that she does nothing. She allows all six children to poke, prod, push and pull her to no end without as much as batting one of her two toned eyes. I think she has some merle border collie in her, because one eye is icy blue and the other is dark brown.

If she is left alone, she cries. Wails actually. But, if I give her enough lap time in the evening, she happily trots off to her crate at the end of the night to sleep. If for some reason we put her to be a little earlier, she cries and cries until she gets enough time on the couch with someone. She totally thinks she’s a lap dog and she’s pushing 35 pounds now.

Last night, I put a platter of chicken and green beans on the table for dinner.
While I was preparing the rest of the meal and distracted by the evening news, she hopped up on a chair and ate our ENTIRE dinner. It was enough to feed seven people! (Gabby was not joining us last night.) Needless to say I was PO’d that I had to remake dinner. I think I forget that she is just a pup because in all other respects, she’s like an ole hounddog.

She’s learned a couple of commands and is doing well housebreaking - but I seriously don’t know if she’s "all there".

Maybe my last dog was just wicked smaht.