Let Them Eat Cake

Not long ago, my husband asked me a question:

"Now that we've been here a while, have you thought about what ministry you want to get involved in?"

He didn't know what hit him. Not literally, of course, but almost.

You see, when we moved here, I had all these grandiose ideas of what my life would be like.

I'd have a dozen neighborhood kids coming to play in my yard in the afternoons. And we'd sit on the front porch and sip lemonade and eat assembly-line-made  peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

I'd volunteer to read aloud at the devastatingly underperforming local elementary school. (Not the school my kids go to, mind you. So I'd totally be doing this out of the goodness of my heart.) And I would get companies and bookstores to donate books so that every child I read to would go home with a copy of his very own.

I'd mentor girls at the enrichment center around the corner where my boys often go after school.

I'd volunteer at the library down the street and start some sort of kids' program.

But we've been here for a year. And none of that has happened.

So when my husband asked me "What ministry do you want to get involved in?" I lost it. Because in his question I heard a veiled accusation that what I had done this year wasn't ministry. And therefore wasn't important. It wasn't what he meant, of course. But it's what I heard.

Brothers From Another Mother

We are building a house in Avoid.

Now, this poses all sorts of challenges
that I never would have considered in suburbia where new houses pop up like weeds on every spare patch of land.

For example: In Avoid, once piping an wiring and major systems are in, it is normal to pay someone trustworthy to sleep in your house to keep people from breaking in and stealing copper wiring.

Seriously. It's a thing.

Le Compte de Grove Park

Scene: Last night as I was preparing dinner.

Jordan: At PAWKids today, me and Mr. Iverson wrote a new song!

Me: Who wrote a new song?

Jordan: Me and Mr. Iverson.

Me: Who?

Jordan: (pausing) Mr. Iverson and I wrote a new song.

Me: That's awesome!

Jordan: Which one? That we wrote a new song or that I had good grammar?

Me: Both honey. Both.

When I was growing up, my parents would pretend not to hear me if I spoke using incorrect grammar. I carry on the family tradition. My father is an attorney, but was a journalist — both print and television — before going to law school. My mother was a high school English teacher before she quit to stay home with the kiddos. My parents write and speak well, and they expected the same of their children.

Sunday Confessional: I'd Make a Sucky Foster Mom

You've probably heard the statistics. That if just one family in every third church in Georgia would foster one child, there would be enough families for every child in "the system."

(Or something ridiculous like that. I don't know the exact number. But the point being that it wouldn't take a lot of people stepping up to ensure that every foster child had a family to call their own.)

It seems like the churches I attend and the families I know are doing more than their share. Caring for the orphans and the parent-less is something that my friends are doing in droves.

Adopting or fostering or adopting their fosters.

So adoption and fostering is not a foreign concept to me. In my world it is almost freakishly common.

But I just know ... somewhere ... deep in my bones ... that I'm not woman enough.

My Son the Soldier

My 18-year-old is right now at Fort Gillem in Forest Park, Georgia, enlisting in the Army.

Mama is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking hot lemon water, and trying to picture her little boy in fatigues. I saw this, and it made me smile.

He's chosen to be an Abrams tank crew member. I suggested that perhaps a cook would be awesome. He loves food, right? And it's so saaaaaafe!

He nixed that idea.

Nooooooo im (sic) not joining the military to become a chef