Baking Dishes and Essential Oils

Driving home from work today -- which went by really quickly because Thank You Spring Break (which made me happy but also sad that I was driving home from work when so many others were enjoying the day) -- I thought of the things I needed to get done tonight. Finish up the laundry, unload the dishwasher, plan my travel outfit for tomorrow and pack my travel bag for Tuesday's journey (which, yes, I am still looking for the perfect travel bag. Visit themomedit.com to see my inquiry and the resulting recommendations.).

What a fourth part kind of night.

Bonus . . .I'm home by myself. G went fishing (happy spring bring to him) and the girls are spending the night at my parents' house. Chris will be here anxiously anticipating my 'make wise choices' lecture and presentation as we he packs to leave for his spring break fun tomorrow. (Not my fun, his fun.)

Home by myself. Outfit, done. Travel bag, packed. Laundry, ongoing. Dishwasher, emptied.

But. Wait. Those dishes that were in the dishwasher, they were really baking sheets. Why so many being washed? Oh, yeah, my unplanned science experiment from last night caused a need to wash all the baking sheets. Because at around 7 p.m. in the aforementioned evening, those baking sheets, neatly tucked in that drawer at the bottom of the stove, found themselves covered in lots of olive oil and chicken fat. And, added bonus, slivers and shards of glass.

Suddenly, I have another task to get done tonight that I wanted to forget. As I walked in the house after my quick drive home from work, the lingering smell of the self-cleaning oven setting reminded me . . . I had an oven to clean. Not just wipe out with a damp washcloth, as per the instructions. I had to wipe out with a wash cloth and hope I didn't catch a glass splinter.

You see, as I planned for this evening (and last), I knew a roast chicken would hit the spot. Last night, it would have been carved every so carefully and spooned over rice served alongside a salad. Tonight, it would have been a quick meal for me as I settled in to watch some television and fourth part it up.

Instead of a delicious, Ina-Garten-would-have-been-proud roasted chicken, I had a shattered, glass 9x13 baking dish on the floor, on the counter, in the oven . . .everywhere. Plus, chicken fat to slick it up and make the experiment  clean up even more fun.

No, I didn't have a defective baking dish, I had a lapse in judgment moment. I took home ec in high school. I've cooked many, many meals. I've roasted 100s of chickens. I've used baking dishes. I've added chicken stock to pans in the oven.

Did you know adding chicken stock straight from the refrigerator (read: cold liquid) should not be poured into a glass baking dish that has been in the oven at 425 degrees for 40 minutes? Guess what happens if you do that?

An explosion of glass. A partially roasted chicken sitting on a few pieces of onion, directly on the oven racks. It was as if the glass shattered, exploded and disintegrated all at once.

No one was injured except the baking dish. And, my pride. Fortunately, my sister took on finishing up the roasting of the chicken (after I washed it down) so dinner was saved.

After all went to bed last night, I took care of the mess. Sweeping, swiffer-ing, Clorox-wiping and repeating the cycle a few times cleaned the kitchen. I threw the kitchen rug and several dish towels in the washing machine (remember, the laundry I wrote about above). I turned on the self-cleaning feature (that smell and smoke is nothing to enjoy) and went to bed.

Even with the self-cleaning smell and the smoke, I was able to go right to sleep. Initially, I thought the sleep was coming easily because I was being poisoned by the chemicals in my oven. Nope. I slept well because I used my nifty travel-sized roller ball Serenity essential oil blend. I have no idea what oils are in that Serenity but they truly delivered at a time when I needed serenity. I rolled that sweet elixir on my feet (we have lots of points where the oil can be absorbed -- or something like that) and then dabbed on some Bergamot oil. (That helps with anxiety -- poisonous chemicals and glass remnants awaiting bare feet on the kitchen floor.) The oil I also wore to sleep was olive oil from cleaning up the kitchen. Guessing that helps with hunger pangs?

Alongside my two constantly moving in their sleep, sweet twin girls, I slept. Serenity and Bergamot aromotherapied me right to sleep, eliminating thoughts and concerns about potential glass in the dishwasher and washing machine, the need to wake up earlier than we do for school because Camille has gymnastics at 7 a.m. ($&%!!$%) and being poisoned by those self-cleaning chemicals.

Yes, I woke up. Yes, I'm eating leftover, glass-free roasted chicken for dinner tonight. Yes, I'm enjoying a fourth part of watching The Bachelor finale.

Laundry will be finished before bedtime . . . Bedtime that won't include self-cleaning chemical fumes or a film of olive oil on my skin, but rather a bit of Serenity and Bergamot.

Kielbasa Sausage and Genesis 22

Some days I just don't think I'm a connected mom. I feel like I push through the second part to get home for the third part, but then just rush to get to my fourth part.

Yep, I'm selfish.

And, I hate that.

I want to be the mom that walks in the door and lovingly greets my children, hugs them and listens to the school day stories. I want to pop on an apron and cook a meal that is memorable and delicious. I want to not have to think about things other than my family.

Guess what? I sometimes rush in the door because traffic or some other reason explains why I'm feeling as if I'm late. Four of the five weekdays, I only see Caroline because Camille is already at gymnastics. Yes, I greet her, but sometimes I start asking her to pick up, straighten up and work with me on getting ready for the next day. I sometimes cook a meal that is more like assembling pieces or re-positioning leftovers. I sometimes think of all that needs to take place within the next few hours to make the next few days hum.

Oh, I really try. I park the car in the driveway and take a breath and ready myself to walk in and be an in-the-moment mom.

(It's like when I say to myself 'this is the day that the Lord has made' when the alarm clock goes off in the morning. It's positive thinking.)

Today was one of those evenings. I self-talked (is that a thing) and reminded myself I can be a mom in the moment and really focus on family.

I feel OK about my effort. There wasn't much to pick up (which that kind of stuff makes me crazy) and it was a peaceful entry.

I knew leftover mac and cheese was on the menu and I had a link of kielbasa sausage awaiting the slicing. On a whim, I referred to a favorite cookbook, The Family Dinner, and searched for sausage in the index. There it was. A reference to sausage that didn't lead me to a recipe, but sent me to one of the most pleasantly written, well-received and very needed paragraphs I've ever read.

A woman named Kaisa wrote "A kielbasa sausage is always in our fridge. I slice it into coins and sauté them. I'll roast some broccoli in the oven with olive oil, sale and pepper. The kids call it 'crispy broccoli and sausage night'!

Well, we had no broccoli but we did have salad fixings so the Adams had salad and sausage night. Those few sentences calmed me and reassured me that even a slice of sausage can be present and special. It was so special because Caroline helped me assemble the salad and asked when she could learn how to cut sausage. Simple, but special. Thanks, Kaisa. Your words helped me.

After dinner, after watching The Bachelor (fourth part folks), after showers and after tomorrow prep, I looked at some other words that a friend and colleague recommended I study.

Remember when I wrote that I think about other days (think, ha. How about worry!). Well, specifically, I'm thinking about Chris' upcoming Spring Break. I'm praying so specifically and focusing on what I want. Hmmm, that's not really what my prayers should be, right?

It took this friend to share with me that my prayer should start with 'God, I know he is your son.' Then, she said a whole bunch of other stuff, but I was stuck on those seven words. I nodded to her other comments and may have even shared insights. But, I was stuck on those words.

You see, my children are my children. I've not been able to fully give them to God. They are mine. They are mine. They are mine. Writing that makes it so obvious that no, they aren't mine. They are God's. But, dang, those are my kids. The ones I want to focus on and the ones I want to be in the moment with and the ones I want to make a salad with and the ones I want to pray about.  Mine.

Then she said something about Genesis 22 and that I needed to read and study those words. Y'all know what that is about, right? Abraham willingly offering Isaac for sacrifice. I mean, it is written that he 'bound his son Isaac and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood.' He also 'reached out his hand and took the knife to slay his son.'

I can't. I just can't.

Abraham had told Isaac that God would provide the lamb for the burnt offering. Abraham obeyed God. He trekked up that mountain with his son, gathering wood and all along knew what was expected him.

I carried my son for nine months, delivered him and then raised him. And, now he's off at school making decisions about Spring Break that I just don't like. So I pray he changes his mind. I pray God puts friends and people in his life that are good for him. I've walked to that mountaintop with my son, but just couldn't bind him up and put him on an altar.

I can't I just can't.

But when you really read and pay attention to the words (even through tears), you notice verse 4 has a reference to 'we.' Once the wood was gathered and Abraham saw the spot for sacrifice up in the distance, he said to the servants 'Stay here with the donkey, while I and the boy go over there. We will worship and then we will come back to you.'

We will come back. Was Abraham hopeful? What lead him to say 'we'? Was Abraham just so super positive that God would use Isaac in some other way (like I don't know be in the lineage of David) that he knew he wouldn't sacrifice him that day? Why the 'we'?

It might have had to do with Abraham not sharing the full story with the servants. But, I'm going with, Abraham was super faithful and knew God would know and do best and what is right. God's plans. Not Abraham's. God's plans. Not mine.

This reading and studying is just the tip of leaning into this need to fully give my children to God. I mentioned I'm selfish. I want to hold on to them. I want to not bind them and completely give them and trust them to God.

That paragraph didn't calm me as Kaisa and the sausage. It didn't offer up an instant solution.

It did what it needed to do. It pulled me into the Bible. It put a focus on my family in a way that I could not have predicted. It created a crazy night.

God didn't ask Abraham to complete the sacrifice. He provided a ram for Abraham to sacrifice. Abraham named the place The Lord will Provide.

It doesn't end there.

The Lord tells Abraham, 'I swear by myself that because you have done this and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed, because you have obeyed me.'

Talk about family. Talk about focus. Talk about a paragraph.

My prayer for Chris really does need to change. I need to pray God's will be done and I have the strength to handle whatever comes my way. I need to pray for my spirit and my attitude. I need to pray that more paragraphs of inspiration come into my evenings.

On a crazy sausage evening at that.

Nordstrom Level 1 and Coconut Oil Pulling

Traveling for work used to be exciting, and I thought, glamorous. Yeah, even on Southwest, I believed it was fun. Now that it is a part of most every work week for me, it's not so fun or exciting or glamorous. It makes me tired.

(First world problem, I know.)

(I get a load of points to take my family on trips, I know.)

(I have to take 5:55 a.m. flights some days. A lot of days. Oh, wait, sometimes I take a 6:25 a.m.)

When it comes to work travel, I have a routine. I typically wear a pair of black wedges. If not, I wear my black ballet flats and pack in a pair of heels. I know better than to try and run to a gate in three or four-inchers. I have go-to outfits for warm and cold weather. I know what jewelry works on a flight and always have my James Avery hook bracelet on my wrist. I use either my big yellow travel bag or my green one. Baylor colors bleed true even in work travel. I know what items to pop into those bags. I take time the night before to pack the bag according to the day's need. I figure out how to make lunches ahead of time, lay out clothes, fill backpacks and write babysitter notes. I also do the 'how many hours of sleep do I need to kind of get eight hours or something like that' math when the alarm goes off in the 4s.

Remember, I'm a planner. And, I do all this before a fourth-part. Yes, even on nights when I know the next day is a way too early wake-up call, I'm watching some DVRed show or reading. I need my fourth part to fuel that crack of dawn first part.

But wait, there's more. I've to plan with G on who is on first with drop offs, pick ups and activities. Because, sometimes, he has an early morning staff meeting or coaches' gathering. When the perfect storm occurs, fortunately, I have a sister and brother-in-law a couple of doors down that can help get the girls to school. We had to call in that request this week.

Even though I've a routine and I've my sister and her family available, the planning takes it's toll.

So, when you see that the weekend calendar is empty, you jump for joy. Yeah, I jumped. I might have even danced when I watched the DVRed Oscars (was there something that happened?) and heard JT sing that peppy tune from Trolls.

Jumped and danced my way right over to a washing machine that chose not to bring in water when I popped the knob and put in my request for that miracle liquid. What? Let's try that again. Nope, no water. How about moving the dial to a different setting? Nah, water was not happening. What if I stare at it, place my hands on it and pray something like 'Dear God in heaven, we've just paid Chris' rent for the month and we bought him a new car and I just received the statement indicating I'm only level 1 at Nordstrom so I have some shopping to do and we don't have any extra money for repairs or a new washing machine'? Still no water.

I did this all while I was swishing a tablespoon of coconut oil around in my mouth. For 20 minutes. That's a long time without swallowing a thick liquid. That's quite a while not to laugh or talk. Oh, and that's time needed to help 'pull' out what I think is a cavity growing in one of my back molars.

In the middle of this travel week, I noticed and felt a swollen gum in the back of my mouth. I also had a little bit of constant dull pain around that swelling and the aforementioned tooth was a bit sensitive. I had a couple of lunches with colleagues during this travel week and had to remember to chew on the left side to avoid any out-loud recognition of the pain -- yeah, a scream or yelp. Maybe, I made a little noise at one point during a lunch and tried to play it off as a laugh or gasp at a comment. Etiquette people, business lunch etiquette at it's finest.

I didn't make the 20 minutes. I only did it for 10. I needed to focus on the lack of water in my washing machine. I needed to figure out how to get some laundry detergent soaked clothes out of the washer and down to my sister's house (remember she helps me at all times -- not just early school mornings). I needed to panic about the many loads of laundry needed to be done and the fact that Camille wouldn't have any leos for next week's many nights of gymnastics and yeah, I can go to a dark place really quickly and G is out of town and he would tell me we don't need to sell a car to pay for a new washing machine.

I needed to . . .

Walk away from the washing machine.

Watch the Oscars.

Make a list of Saturday activities: Put in HEB online order, get $17 in cash (for this savings thing I'm trying), pick up a jacket from Lucky Thread (new embroidered sayings) and go to the Nordstrom card website to earn 500 points (I need to get to level 2).

Take a couple of melatonin gummies.

Go to bed.

Pray a more normalized, non-selfish, unfrantic prayer asking God to provide water to come through the potentially scale-y pipes so laundry could be done this weekend (yeah, I watched a youtube video thinking there was a button to push or a switch to click to make water appear and instead I learned about scale build up in the tubes that required unplugging and using a special wrench and then, click pause on that).

As Scarlet and my friend Rach say, 'after all, tomorrow is another day.' (Wait, Rach quotes Prissy saying 'I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies.' That's another topic for another day. But it is still so funny. You should hear her say it. She is spot-on Prissy.)

In a movie that would probably win one of those golden statues, I wake up and all is fixed. (Fix was the 2017 Adams' plan and word.)

My tooth didn't hurt this morning. (I'm doing another round of oil pulling today. I'll go the full 20 minutes).

My girls were already up and dressed. Caroline finished her four readings and summaries.

Breakfast came together well.

HEB order was under $100.

And, the washing machine filled with water when I pulled the knob.

Guess what, friends. In today's fourth part, which starts about now, I'm shopping. Level 2 is on this year's horizon. Rach, what would Prissy say to that?

Baylor Basketball and Curbside to You

What do you do on a Saturday that has no activities on the calendar? And, you are tired from a long work week that started after a three-day weekend in Nashville with friends?

You don't go to the grocery store.

Nah, you order from home and then pick up at a scheduled time. I feel as if I've written about this before because I talk about it all the time. It is amazing. It is life changing. It is the sweet precious miracle for which I have prayed.

I. Do. Not. Have. To. Go. To. HEB. Ever. Again.

(And, it is free the first four times.)

(Yes, you save money and you don't have to pay for the service. You also don't tip.)

(And, the app holds on to your previous orders so you don't have to make a list.)

(Savings all around.)

Curbside To You is one of the greatest inventions I've ever experienced. Adding in that you can buy sliced bread (you know the greatest thing since kind of statement) from it makes it even more a gift.

OK, so we went to Trader Joe's anyway. I needed wine and we needed some Trader Joe-only things such as sparkling lime water, personal cheese pizzas, almond milk and yogurt. That doesn't add up to $50 but somehow other things made their way into my child-sized cart. Caroline helped me shop, while Camille stayed at home. That meant, Caroline had a nice 'example' snack while I sampled a couple of wines. Nice Saturday.

That all came to a halt when we got home and G announced, 'Baylor is on TV.' When I asked the score, he replied 'tied up' at halftime.

And, because I cannot keep my eyes off a potential train wreck, I had to watch the game. Why oh why did I do that?

I know. I'm forever hopeful that this is our year. I'm forever a believer that we will win or continue winning during a season. I'm forever the one who has Baylor winning it all.

As a result, I'm forever crushed.

We were winning and then I started to watch. Then, we started to lose. Then, we turned it over a few times at critical times. Then, we couldn't get a rebound. Then, we lost.

Even with a late run, I knew it was not going to turn out as I hoped. This team. What would it be like to be a fan of a consistent team -- one that wins consistently, not one that consistently wreaks havoc on your heart and soul.

It's time again to buy football season tickets so I looked at the 2017 schedule and thought to myself, there are quite a few games we can make. We can even maybe spend a weekend or two in Waco instead of just driving up and back on game day. And, we play some big games at home so we have that home field advantage. We have a great new coach and recruited well. (I didn't look closely at the ticket prices. I'm assuming they are staying the same).

Look at that hope reaching up. Feel that surge of positivity. Every year. Every season. I'm forever hopeful that this is our year. I'm forever a believer that we will win or continue winning during a season. I'm forever the one who has Baylor winning it all.

Where did I just write that or read that? Oh, yeah, a few paragraphs above. I followed it with something terribly pessimistic. I won't write that yet because the football season is just dates on a piece of pretty green and gold paper . . .

Ah, Curbside to You is calling. That's a place to put your hopes and dreams. That's something to believe in.

That's some kind of fourth part gift.

Lasagna and Running on Empty

Some fourth parts require a lot of effort. Not just planning or organizing, but true effort. I'm talking rent a car, drive five hours, work for four hours and then drive another two hours kind of effort.

Tonight's fourth part was simple on paper. I wanted to make a lasagna for my son and his roommate. Not one to freeze and ship from San Antonio to Lubbock. But make one in Lubbock in my son's apartment with ingredients purchased from the Wal Mart in town.

That took effort. And, man, was it worth it.

I've never been a road-trip kind of gal. I think growing up, we drove to Pennsylvania once or twice and would make road trips as far north as Dallas or Texarkana and south to the beach or Laredo. We didn't do the cross country trips. I can only imagine it had more to do with my sisters and I drawing lines between us in the back seat and being a bit much than it did my parents' desire to take us places.

Now, we fly places. We've driven to Memphis and all over the state of Texas, but never packed up the car and let's say, head to California. I have a sister and brother in law who've done that all over the U.S. to watch major league baseball games. They've driven from San Antonio to Toronto. Y'all, that's Canada.

I envy those road trippers imagining great stops at roadside attractions and Dairy Queens. Then, I think the reality is Whataburger scents for days and a lot of crankiness.

Recently, we've taken a few trips to Lubbock to register Chris and to move him into his apartment. That's a six-hour drive. It's easy because the roads are great and not much traffic. But it's looooong.

So, when Chris needed golf clubs and a co-worker willingly offered up a set from her husband, I said, 'let's throw them in a car and I'll drive them to him.'

Conveniently, I've been spending time in Midland for work and that's only a hop skip and a jump from Lubbock. Let's be clear, Midland is still a good distance from San Antonio. Like right under five hours of distance. But, no worries, I'll rent a car, schedule meetings to start at 1 p.m. and then after working, head up to the land of Red Raiders.

Car rental, check. Loading up the rental, no sweat. Leaving and getting on the road, problem free.

It was so breezy and easy and lemon squeezy. I listened and laughed to a favorite podcast along the way.

Then, I noticed . . . low fuel. 36 miles left. What? How? I thought this rental got great gas mileage. I never even thought about needing to stop and pump along the journey. Plus, the low fuel indicator didn't bother me. I was in oil country. Pumps everywhere. Trucks hauling big containers of fluid that contribute to the creation of gasoline.

No gas station anywhere. Aahh, but an intersection of two highways that was 35 miles away would provide that fuel and I'd be on my way. Yeah, no. Not in this neck of the woods.

I ran out of gas at the corner of 137 and 158. Translation 'middle of nowhere.'

When a truck driver pulled by me and he kindly rolled down his window asking me what's wrong, I said I needed gas and he said, 'well, all I've got is diesel.' Ugh.

Triple A to the rescue with the words from the dispatcher sounding something like 'it will be almost an hour before someone gets the gas to you.' Ugh, again.

There is work to be done and golf clubs to be delivered. This is not going according to plan.

I did not call my husband as he would have worried and lost his mind with me. (I'm good at getting really low on gas and maybe, even running out.)

I waited. Put on my makeup. Listened to the podcast.

Then came William Starnes. My angel. He was in flip flops and a road hard kind of shirt that had been hung out to dry. He was not with Triple A but had a container of gas in the back of his pick up that he willingly funneled into my tank . . . without a request or expectation of payment. He didn't even want to give me his full name or address.

I got the contact information out of him because, well, I need to properly thank him with a note and a gift card. I was raised right.

I cancelled the Triple A help and went on my way. Had my meetings -- where co-workers enjoyed the story -- and then gassed up to get on the road to Lubbock. Yes, I filled up the car (which was only 13 gallons -- that should be indication of the tank size and how it could not make the journey to Midland -- but how would I know that!?!).

And, at 6 p.m., my fourth part really began. It started with a hug and a smile from my son. We progressed to shop for groceries and then I even did laundry. Tonight, these were fourth part activities. Remember, a fourth part is the time I have for me to do what I want and what refuels me. Seeing that boy and walking the aisles of Wal Mart buoyed my spirits. I even bravely decided to tell G about the running out of gas moment (with Chris standing by me).

As Chris and his roommate watched a basketball game, I made lasagna and put fresh sheets on his bed. I even cleaned a bit.

Before I got back on the road to Midland because I've work tomorrow and a hotel bed calling my name, I got another hug. Another thank you. Another smile. Another re-fueling moment.

I didn't get to eat the lasagna but it wasn't for me. I wasn't running on empty anymore because seeing him filled me up.

Yeah, I stopped to get gas before leaving Lubbock, but I probably could have made it back to Midland on the fuel I got from being with him.

Valentine's Day Boxes and Cleaning Bathrooms

An activity-free Saturday. Nothing on the calendar. No events. No parties. No games.

It's potentially a fourth part all day.

(I mean we have laundry and grocery shopping and feeding children. And, making beds. You know, the life stuff.)

Oh, but wait.

G headed out early for a high school coaches meeting. (The most exciting part was he heard my new Baylor football coach speak. I asked if he took a picture, shook his hand, introduced himself, mentioned I'm a Baylor alum, told him we are season ticket holders, said we love Baylor football. Can you picture the glance I received?)

I have to clean the bathrooms. As part of a cost-cutting measure, we no longer have our housekeeper. First-world problem, I know. But still. Oh, and when I write 'clean the bathrooms,' I mean pulling out some Clorox wipes and going at it with vigor.

We have to negotiate our Sirius and Time Warner, now Spectrum (I mean how many times do we need to see that commercial) bills. I still remain a bit confused that all of these bills are negotiable. It's like buying a car. I mean, if you pause long enough, say you are going to cancel, tell them you are switching providers -- they start knocking off dollars. Why. Don't. We. Start. There.

And, this is the real event, we need to make Valentine's Day card boxes. Two of them. Boxes for the cards they receive from their classroom friends. Boxes. Decorated. Pinterest-like activity. The already-turned-in boxes (they aren't due until February 10 people) are as grand as a box decorated with the Marvel superheroes and an elephant with a 3D trunk.

Pause.

Where are the days gone by of brown paper bags with a red paper heart and a few marker-drawn hearts? Or a red wrapping paper wrapped box with a doily heart?

Nope. Not this year.

Count my sleeping past 9 a.m. as my fourth part because we moved full on into box decorating and bill negotiating before noon.

Box number one was designed by my traditionalist with pink tissue paper and hearts. The flourish is a six, 'count them again mom,' six pipe cleaners with paper hearts attached flying out of two very large paper hearts glued on to the ends of the box. Done.

Box number two was made by my artist. No simple hearts and pipe cleaners here. She chose an under the sea theme which requires cut out fish, seaweed and a hand-drawn, will be cut out later, mermaid. This box is wrapped in sparkly seafoam green tissue paper that we had on hand. And, my little sweet creative found the one piece of green construction paper from which we (yeah, I helped) cut out three little fish and the seaweed. She carefully drew fins and eyes, which were hearts (remember, it is a Valentine's Day card box), on the fish. Almost done.

The bathrooms are calling to be cleaned and that feels like something I would rather be doing and then my artist says . . .

'I love these kind of mornings.'

Pause.

The bathrooms can wait.

My girls shared scissors and glue sticks. It was nice and peaceful. And, we've got some boxes mostly complete.

'This is what I like as a family.'

Pause.

The girls willingly cleaned up their work area and changed into play clothes.

When I asked for a few uninterrupted moments to take care of the bill paying and negotiating, I received a 'yes m'am' in two little precious voices.

Pause.

I love these kind of Saturday mornings. This is what I like as a fourth part.

Worries and Kid-ding

There is just too much good TV on these days. Last Thursday a crisis presented in the Adams' house. Scandal premièred. Top Chef was on (it's in Charleston -- pimento cheese heaven). Nashville has snuck it's way back into my life (dang CMT -- let Tami Taylor get back to Texas). And, the New Edition Story was either a part one, two or three on BET. Yeah, I love New Edition. I go way back with Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky and Mike . . .( a few beats) and Ralph. If I love a band, who cares who you like. I mean, that was some music. Bell Biv Devoe, Ralph and his Sensitivity, Bobby and his Prerogative plus Johnny Gill, my, my, my, my . . you sure look good tonight.

OK, all this to say, decisions had to be made as to what TV was watched and recorded. Our DVR records two shows at a time so one TV was occupied with my recordings. The bedroom TV had Scandal and G watched, nothing. I imagine there was basketball or something on, but priorities. Do not cancel a recording was my plea from the bedroom.

The TV-watching dilemma was a worry. Temporary, but albeit a worry. Minor, sure, but still a concern of recording and watching and then deciding when to watch the recording. I mean, loads of fourth part planning took place in a matter of minutes when I recognized the overlap and bumper car-like bumping into each other television programming.

If only that was my only worry. And, really, someone greater than I tells me to cast all my anxieties on Him. Sure, how was He going to handle the TV viewing? Ridiculous example, but go with me here.

We trust God to provide. We trust God to deliver us from bad and sad situations. We trust God to comfort us. We trust that we do have eternal life if we believe that Jesus died on the cross for our sins and rose again. Easy trusting stuff. No need to worry.

(Please, tonight, I was worrying about the providing when I thought about the transfers to Chris' account to pay for electricity and the power deposit and a calculator -- that's a good thing, studying!).

So we trust. And, typically, we fall into the trust when things are falling apart. The wheels coming off kind of thing. That's the time we cry out, we scream out (in my case), we head to the Bible and we wear our knees out praying. That's the time when every bit of scripture and every single line in a devotion point toward our need to depend on Him.

We cast those worries so far and fast as if we were trying to get the big one out of the ocean. I mean I've no problem in the casting and trusting department during those times.

So, lately, those times have been way too frequent. I feel like we are just at the end of the account most every day. Can a balance sit on $28 for a few days? Yes, it can. Can the weekly HEB bill be $50? Yes, it can.

I mean, I'm a trusting gal in the trying situations. I prayed that God would get us through the last period until G's payday and He did. We watched our expenses like a hawk and had everything taken care of -- then we got paid and well, oh, yeah, I have a child in college who has rent to be paid, electricity to be left on (requires payment) and a daughter in gymnastics and another who rides horses. And, and, and.

Worries sneaking in now. Fourth parts are obsessing over bills and expenses to make sure everything is covered. I mean I know the budget is there and we can pay this, but still. Worry. What ifs? How abouts? Anxieties! Worries! Forget those lilies of the field and the birds who don't worry about what they wear . . . .I'm in full panic mode worry.

Deep breath. Pause.

Jesus Calling provided a gift this week. The words were along the lines of worries can become idols. Uh, what? Let's re-read that sentence. I mean it had only a few words but contained a noun, verb and all the right parts. A worry can become an idol.

I've been worrying a lot lately.

Not only about money and how it is working now that we have expenses that are shifting our budget a bit (a bit, ha, a lot! If Kate Spade sends me a sale email, I'll lose it. I've nothing in the budget for that my friend, Kate.). 

I've also been worried about all that is going on in our government. Most of you know how I vote and where I stand. My Facebook feed has been all about what to do -- petitions to sign, letters to write, protests and marches in which to participate. I committed to my country (wow, I'm a real patriot) to do something everyday. To let my voice be heard. To represent that which I believe. And, well, I've been worrying. Loads of anxiety. I talk about it. I think about it. I post about it. I write about it (ask my Senators!). And, I take sleep aids to stop talking, thinking and writing about it.

I've got an idol before me.

Today was a day where worrying about the evening and all that needed to be taken care of became something almost out of control. Announcements of SCOTUS nominations and Secretary appointments threw me into a loop of anxiety. Then, there's the home life stuff. Between unloading the dishwasher, putting together tomorrow's lunches and getting in a quick shower for the girls, I started ripping into the mail. Two things that require attention. A few bills. Potential worries, right? Yep.

Deep breath. Pause.

God sent something in that moment. My mom subscribes the girls to a faith-based magazine and the newest issue was in the stack of worry and anxiety. In the middle of making a copy of my license to mail back a request to un-dormant a long-lost bank account and stacking up forms to take care of Chris' jury exemption, Caroline read a joke to me from her magazine about what cows take to work. A beef-case. Then, Camille started reading through her jokes from the magazine. 'What does the volcano say to the water. I lava you.' 'What kind of chocolate do horses like on Valentine's Day. Horse-y kisses.'

Talk about breaking the worry ice.

The expenses still exist and lunches need to be packed. Occasionally, my girls need showers. Oh, and dinner needs to get on the table. But, really, worrying doesn't help. It just makes the things bigger and I need them to be the size they are -- sizes I can take care of and handle.

With God's help, right? Need to trust Him right now. Knock down that idol of worry and focus on worship and praise and mercy and grace. He's got a sufficient amount for me. And, tomorrow morning, His compassion is there. It never fails.

Not kidding.