God in the Gaps

This morning I got up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m. I used that time to be godly.
I haven't been up that early in a while and didn't realize the moon shines so bright at that time of the morning. The sun was not even thinking about rising yet.
Our neighborhood features a street that runs parallel to Granbury Road but is also completely separate from it. You can walk down this street and feel like you are in the midst of traffic but stay perfectly safe and protected by curbs and medians on a deserted street.
Usually when I walk the traffic on Granbury is steady, but this morning it was sporadic. Several seconds of fast cars clumped together was followed by several seconds of silence. The silence was beautiful, calm, and peaceful, and immediately trampled by traffic.
I was thinking about Psalm 46:10, the verse that says "Be still and know that I am God." I have a hard time living out that verse, because as soon as I sit still to focus on God, my thoughts and lap are trampled by children. My life is like the traffic this morning on Granbury Road.
But having your peace trampled isn't always avoidable. In fact, it's usually not. However, that doesn't mean that the stillness that you experienced for those few seconds or minutes didn't exist. So today I am focusing on noticing God in the gaps of traffic. In between bombardment of requests and needs, I will be still and know. Then when I'm in the midst of the traffic, I can hold onto the calmness that once was.

Cooking Up Memories

Yesterday I decided to lead the kids in baking homemade cookies. I love cooking and want to impart that love to the children. Also, I want to make sure that when they graduate from high school, they can cook their way through college.
We had fun mixing the dough. Claire was using the electric mixer and every time she paused, Paul dipped his spoon in and ate some. I greased the cookie sheets and let them arrange the dough to their liking.
I opened the oven door while the cookies were baking and realized this recipe wasn't working. It came out of an old recipe book that Claire picked out at Half Price Books, so I wasn't surprised. The recipe is from the 1970s and maybe the ingredient list wasn't up to date.
So when I opened the oven I told the kids that the cookies weren't cooking right and Claire said, "Should we call the police and tell them we are cooking cookies?"
This was in reference to a recent incident when after baking a cake, I cleaned the oven and the neighbor thought his house was on fire. He called 9-1-1 and the firemen had to come inside my house and inspect it.
I assured Claire that the police did not need to be alerted that our cookies weren't baking correctly. When we pulled them from the oven they were hot and sticky and didn't look like cookies at all.
Undiscouraged, I waited until the pans cooled down and gave the kids a spoon. I told them to dig in. They each had a bite and were uninterested after that.
This morning in the kitchen we ran out of creamer. I buy it in bulk from Costco, so I was surprised. I was looking all over the place and then I remembered what happened.
Last week I made drums for the kids with coffee creamer cans. I had one empty can, but to have two, I emptied another into a ziploc bag.
I found the creamer and gave Adam his coffee. Then I realized that yesterday I used that same Ziploc bag to measure flour for the kids' cookies. That's why the recipe didn't work. We used a cup and a half of coffee creamer, not flour.
At least we made some memories.

Mortification as Ministry

Every Thursday night during the summer and winter months, our church hosts up to twelve homeless ladies for an overnight stay. The program is called Room in the Inn, and the Boyettes love it.
I love helping with RITI because I love to cook and you will not find more willing taste-testers than those ladies. Also, I never considered cooking as a ministry, but have discovered that it can be.
Some people that serve don't bring their children. They know the kids will be underfoot and make other arrangements for them. That's not an option for me, so I bring my kids along. I believe it's good for them to be around all types of people growing up so they can learn that everyone no matter what color, handicap, economic, or housing status is a valuable person.
About a month ago was our first time to serve this summer. I was busy in the kitchen dishing out the food so I let the kids roam around, visiting with the ladies. One of my friends alerted me that I needed to grab Paul. He was jumping on the guest beds. I was mortified and immediately yanked him and apologized all over myself. The lady who was lying down said she had seven kids of her own and didn't mind Paul at all. I relaxed a little, which gave the green light to Claire.
The next time I looked, both kids were jumping on the mattresses and Paul was also actually riding a lady like a horse. Church members kept alerting me that my kids were going crazy, I kept apologizing, and the homeless ladies kept enjoying it.
This past Thursday we served again. During the appetizer portion, Paul and Claire ate off of everyone's plates. One lady kept getting more grapes, only to have them hijacked by Paul every time. Claire begged for another lady to pour her punch and went around the room showing everyone her new McDonald's toy.
During dinner it was more of the same. I was serving, and the kids were going wild. They were jumping on beds, doing somersaults, and leaving their shoes all over the room. Paul kept approaching one lady and showing her his big boy underwear, which I later realized was filled with poop.
My stress level was to the roof and I was mortified. Several families at our church have children that are quiet, graceful, and well-behaved all the time. My children act the same way at church as at home: full of joy, enthusiasm, and energy.
Once I discovered the poop, we had to exit. I was embarrassed and exhausted.
Yesterday at church, one of the homeless ladies approached me. She told me Claire and Paul were the talk of the Day Resource Center on Friday. Apparently a few of the ladies who visited our church were telling stories of those crazy kids. Cindy told me they talked about Paul's shoes which never match, Claire's new haircut, their personalities, and even that they jump on beds. Apparently several of the ladies asked about the bed-jumping and said, "That actually sounds like you guys have fun!"
So this Thursday when we go to see the homeless ladies at church, I'm not going to fret it. Apparently jumping on beds can be a ministry.
Another activity that mortifies me is taking Paul to "big church" service. We started taking Claire when she turned two, slowly training her and escaping to the nursery when needed.
Last week Paul had to leave when the sermon started because he was singing "Halloooya!". This week he lasted almost to the end of the sermon when he started army-crawling under the pews. He was very quiet, so I felt we had some progress.
After service everyone gathers in the atrium to fellowship. No less than three strangers came up to me to ask why I had to take Paul out of worship service. "He was being so good. He wasn't disturbing anyone." They all commented on what joy it brings them to watch my energetic, enthusiastic kids during worship.
I had been cursing under my breath and regretting that we let Claire seat us in the front row. Apparently sitting in the front row is okay because we're providing entertainment for the entire congregation.
I've learned that having hyper kids at church is one of those turning lemons into lemonade moments. Who knew that my mortification was preventing the kids from sharing joy?

Lost and Found

When Adam and I lived in the TCU area, we developed quite a reputation for rescuing dogs. I can't even tell you how many dogs we caught and returned to their owners.
When we moved to Wedgwood, we had to give that up. One problem is that we never can catch the loose dogs, and the other problem is that we always know who they belong to. It's always the family across the street who have exactly 12 people and 1200 dogs and cats in residence.
This morning was different. Claire and Paul and I were going to go on a walk to walk our dog, Wesley Eugene, and scout for birds. Claire has a National Geographic bird guide, so we were going to identify every bird we saw.
As we were leaving, a little puppy came up to us and was jumping over Wesley. He was playful and friendly and missing his collar. I put him in the backyard for safety. I was going to take him to the pound, assuming that he belonged to our neighbor and thinking I would teach her a lesson.
I decided maybe that wouldn't be the best action, so I rang her doorbell and talked to her instead. It wasn't her dog.
So Claire and Paul and I went up and down the block ringing doorbells, asking if anyone knew the dog we had found. It was a sweet dog, and Claire named him Potatohead.
No one knew Potatohead, so we decided to go ahead and take him to the pound. I know what they do there, but it's a central location, and I was hoping the owner would call the pound to collect him.
On the way to the pound, I called Adam. He encouraged me to make flyers instead and post them around the block. So we detoured to Petsmart to buy the dog some cheap dog food so he could avoid eating Wesley's fancy stuff.
When we were checking out, I was visiting with the cashier, and she suggested I speak to the employees at the back of the store that run a dog shelter on site. I did and found out that the dog had a chip implanted in the back of his neck that told his name, his owner's name, address, and various phone numbers. So even though the dog didn't have a collar or tags, we were able to find his owners.
We returned the dog to his owners. His name is really Marley, but he also answers to "Potatohead." Apparently Marley is owned by a family with a three-year old who had been crying all morning because the dog had escaped.
It was a happy ending, and I believe an educational one for all of us. I learned that a little patience and mercy can make someone else's day. The kids learned that every animal has a home where he belongs, and home is always the best place to be.