My littlest girl in her hand-made curls...

Kitchen Help

After dinner, many hands make light work. There's Fifi at the sink. Jim is at the fridge and little Cuddlebug is behind him, see? Dumpling, never mind the camera. Get to work.

No chance. She and the camera were meant to be together. It beckons her and she cannot resist its lure.

"I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille."

Ahem, Dumpling? The Bible says that if you don't work, you don't eat and I think there is dessert in the freezer.

We homeschool year round so we can spend the spring like this...

Scarborough Faire 2009

Come on girls! It's time to go to the Student Days at the Waxahachie Renaissance Faire! Stop spinning in that chair and let's go or it will be over before we get there.

Wow! This is great! Our first friend? The town crier...

Dumpling was pretty offended for most of the rest of the day after she found out this jester named his dog, "Blockhead."

We stumbled upon this merchant selling psalteries. It was more of a financial commitment than we were willing to make, but she let each of the girls play with it for a minute anyway.

Cuddlebug stopped our conversation cold as we all heard a real song coming from her turn at the instrument! She quickly correlated the strings to piano keys and enjoyed a nice moment outside her sister's musical shadow.

Here we are waiting for the Birds of Prey show which turned out to be one of our favorite moments of the day.

On to the joust! The girls were concerned that someone might die.

And this moment was pretty spectacular!

Now to try her own hand at the rings. Uh...Dumpling...you might want to
l e a n out a little and reach for the ring.

This was her 3rd try...or her 5th...but isn't she sweet?

Cuddlebug rung them on her second try...

...it's what she does.

There were exotic animals to ride; Cuddlebug chose the elephant.

Dumpling picked the camel.

Fifi's dress kept her feet on the ground, so she visited the bows and arrows booth and ended up buying a pretty nice set up from this Christian man. His wife makes the arrows by hand.

Where to now?

Of course! The costume shop! Fifi sewed that dress she's wearing (that's another post entirely) and was intrigued by the professionally made costumes that were for sale. Well, she was interested until she discovered that they were for sale for many hundreds of dollars.


O.k....time is short girls! We had better move fast to fit it all in before the closing cannon boom!
Double time--here's a picture to prove that Mommy was there too...

Everyone but me riding the Crow's Nest...

Cuddlebug gets her brain tightened. Thankfully, when he finished, she was able to correctly answer that 2 + 2 = 4! *Whew*

$1 sanctioned opportunity to hit each other with big, padded sticks...

Cannon blast! Time's up! Get out!

King someone or other. Fifi could probably tell you who...along with his marital and blood lineage for generations in either direction.

And finally...the nobility bade a fond farewell to the common peasants. And home we went to the 21st century.

We Love...

We've been invited to our first ever Valentine's Day party!

And we're abuzz with questions and excitement over the unknown!

Dumpling and Cuddlebug chose their card stock, Bible verse and cloth ribbon to make their Valentines special...

...but they're a little concerned over whether there will be boys in attendance. I remind them that the love of Christ is for everyone. Even boys. *wink*

Conversations

Did you know...that white potatoes come from Peru, not Ireland. The Incas planted them in the Andes. On the border with Boliva--even today--potatoes are freeze dried and trampled to wear away the peel and produce a kind of mash.

Did you realize...that fifty years ago housewives stayed home and the milk and produce man came to them!

Have you heard...that someday, there will be a one-woman shop selling baked goods behind a candy counter where penny candy will make its come back.

Had you heard...that Charles Dickens died in the middle of his final book--a murder-mystery called Edwin Drood. Authors have been picking up the story and trying their hand at an ending ever since.

Did you know...that the last scene in the Prince Caspian movie was filmed in Slovenia.

Did you know...that the folded over lace-up back of a dress bodice is called a placket.

These are the things we five talk about as we share our space and time and meals together. And later, when the self-inflicted expectations threaten to overwhelm me, I stop and take a good hard stare at these little girls and remind myself that the people before me are not yet who they will be, but are rather--just someone they are passing through. They are to be relished.

Have you paused to take stock of what God has given you today? What are you and yours talking about?

I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up!

...fallen off the blogging habit, that is. I'm going to try to post tomorrow night...

If I'm not around here much 'till after Christmas...

...it's because there are so many more wonderful things at which to gaze.

Because greater love has no one than this...

(A continuation of yesterday's story.)

The first time I saw him he was strolling in front of what used to be the Indian restaurant down the way. I thought he was just another hippie. It didn't really surprise me to see him; the make up of our side of town took on a new character right around the time that Katrina hit New Orleans and a fair amount of its flooded-out residence fled here.

Within the week, I saw him again. It was more clear this time that he was walking the streets aimlessly, carrying nothing at all, wearing exactly what he had been wearing earlier in the week. He was not a "hippie." He was homeless.

Driving by, I found myself completely unprepared to help. No cash. No snacks. Nothing.

And so, we did what we knew to do. Something we had done before.

This year's 1000-calorie packs included nutritious and delicious snack food...

basic hygiene products like toothpaste and deodorant...

and some comfort items like gum and Chapstick...

We packed 10 bags, and loaded 2 of them into the car.

And Wednesday, on the way home from our outing downtown--to see the Nutcracker, to eat at Shilo's, to take a boat ride, to tour a Catholic Church, to come face to face with the least of these--we saw him. He wasn't walking around this time. He was sitting on a bus stop bench in my neighborhood. I turned into the adjacent parking lot so that I could drive up along side the man who had inspired us to prepare, and motioned Fifi to hand me one of the bags.

"Give me the good one--the one with the tuna lunch and cliff bar."

He was on his feet and already coming toward me as I rolled down my window to hand it out to him. I tried not to show my shock at the realization that he was not a black man as I had assumed from afar. Up close, I could see he was hispanic. He was caked and dark with grime and also in desperate need of a nail clipping, haircut and shower. He took the bag, bowed his head as if to say, "thank you," and went back to his bench a few steps away. When he turned around, it was clear, too, that he needed a change of clothing.

And that was it.

I started to drive away when I remembered that I had forgotten to add water to the bags. I had thought to once, but hadn't followed through right away, and the idea flew out of my head.

"Do you need some water?" I called out.

He jumped up, sat back down and somehow signaled in the affirmative without actually saying a word.

"I'll go get some and be right back." Rather than go to a store and drag everyone in, taking so long that maybe he'd be gone by the time I got back, I stopped at a corner store and bought what they had to offer. Vitamin water or Green Tea--this store had no regular bottled water. I chose the water and prayed that it wouldn't disagree with his system.

When I got back into the car, I started running the question over in my head. Where does this man get water? I can't imagine that the local restaurants, even fast food, would allow him to enter their establishments. Is there a hose behind one of the businesses that he can access? Do people give him bottles as they pass by?

He's not asking for money. There's no sign, no set up. This guy is the real deal, and it makes me think about things I haven't thought about before. Real things like food, water, warmth, tooth brushing, body odor, underwear and bathroom breaks.

I hadn't answered any of these questions for myself before I got back to the bus bench to deliver his bottled water. He stood up, came over, and took the bottle from my hand. I was horribly aware by now of how inadequate my offering was in the face of his need, and I invited him to assuage my guilt with a reassurance that he knew of our city's available services and that he had somewhere to sleep.

He didn't actually say yes as much as he nodded his head. I asked him what his name was and he paused to search for it, it seemed. I think he doesn't speak English.

"Martinez," he said. And he didn't seem crazy. Or mean.

I think I needed him to seem crazy. Or mean.

"I'll pray for you, Martinez."

Before he got back to the bench I looked beyond him to see if he was making use of the bag we gave him minutes earlier. I was not prepared for what I saw, and I'm not sure why it struck me as such a blow. Martinez had ripped into that gallon-sized Ziploc bag like an animal, leaving a gaping whole on one side and rendering the bag completely useless to carry its other items.

He did not know how to unzip the bag.

The four of us girls spent the rest of the ride home listening to me think aloud to myself about what I had just seen. Will Martinez be able to figure out how to open the Starkist Lunch-To-Go albacore and crackers? Is he going to know what to do with the deodorant stick or will he mistake it for food? Will he be able to keep hold of the Chapstick tube for the worst of the cold, dry days coming this winter?

*Sigh* Oh Lord Jesus, have mercy on Martinez!

And have mercy on me.

For the rest of the day, I am too disturbed to speak. I apologetically brush off my girls, but they understand. They were there. They are confused too.

I am painfully aware of my ability to help. My extra bedroom. The extra 3/4ths bath that our home boasts. Enough food. Even matresses to spare. I am also painfully aware of why I am not helping.

I am...unwilling.

Instead, I choose my safety over Martinez' shower. I choose my girls' protection over Martinez' shelter. I choose my peace of mind over Martinez' dinner. I choose us over him.

And it busts my heart wide open because I can't repent. I can't do it any other way. I am faced with the harsh reality that I am selfish and I need a savior.

Jesus is my Savior.

And I will ask Him to send along another pilgrim to help Martinez. One who is sensitive, equipped, and...willing.

Because He is able. I know He is able. I know my Lord is able to carry him through.

It is so cold here tonight.

...than one lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13

Discovering that my love is not great...

This morning, we got up too early to join our homeschool group in the glass lobby of the Lila Cockrell Theater.

We were there to sit audience for the dress rehearsal of the Nutcracker ballet. The opening scene isn't part of the deal, but we only pay $5 for a ticket--so there are no complaints. The girls were decked out in their prettiest Christmas-colored garb and happy enough to sit around for a half hour waiting to be seated because they were waiting with fun, new friends.

After the production, we walked down the block and ate lunch at Shilo's Delicatessen. It's closed eight out of ten times that we try to stop in--usually evenings and Sundays--but they were open today! I was pleasantly surprised at my vegetarian croissant sandwich, but the little girls didn't care much for their potato pancakes and applesauce.

As we ate, our attention was turned to three young servicemen in camouflage studying the menu outside our booth window. They debated among themselves for a long while before coming in for a round of lunch specials and water. Twenty minutes later our hearts were warmed to see them file past the register without stopping to pay because another patron had picked up their tab anonymously.

As we left, Cuddlebug meekly inquired about a boat ride on the Riverwalk. A mild day, nowhere we have to be, a resident discount, no lines and three sweet smiles quietly awaiting my answer. It was the perfect storm. This is their victory procession to the ticket stand where I will have to borrow $15 cash money from my 8-year old because they're not taking debit today.

I do not know why my 8-year old is carrying around $15 cash money. We keep emptying that wallet into safer places, and it keeps filling up with money--like the widow and her oil. I blame the grandmas.

Back on street level, we ducked into St. Joseph's Downtown Church. It was beautifully adorned with tapestries, paintings and stained glass as was the way to share the Gospel with worshippers before publishing and literacy were commonplace. The beautiful sanctuary was also riddled with at least a dozen life-sized statues, and Fifi's demeanor gave me concern.

I worried that she might be sick or faint dead away before we left.

We reverently walked the perimeter of the room, not daring to sit in a pew, and came upon a man unpacking his bedroll and backpack on a bench. As he wriggled his left arm out of its strap, I took note that his shirt was ripped the length of his torso. Clearly, this place was more his home than mine, and so I said nothing and continued on my way to the exit.

We passed the "poor boxes," and swiped a tourist information sheet on the way out.

Thinking back, I don't know why it didn't occur to me in the moment to give the girls some bills or coins to slide into those boxes. They kept asking about the boxes. They whispered about the boxes. They noticed every one of the boxes.

"Mommy, why does that say "poor box?"

"Mommy, how do you put money in there without a key for the lock?"

Once at the back of the sanctuary, another homeless man held the door for us. I greeted him with a smile and a "good afternoon," but we must have been too close, still, to the sacred place because he did not respond.

Back on the curb again, Fifi strung together her impressions the best she could. It sounded something like, "Mommy, people like that would never think to come into any of our churches."

It is sad and she is right. Our churches are all locked. There is no steeple. There are no people. We are grieved and talk through our feelings. Inaccessibility in the protestant church is a hard truth to swallow. Especially when it's coupled with childish indignation at the idea of taxes going toward government-sponsored social programs. My question then becomes, "O.k. then, Christian--what are you doing about it?"

And on our way home, we exited the freeway near our suburban neighborhood, and I met a man who busted my heart wide open...

to be continued

Dumpling's Very First Recital