I’m not proud of being impatient.  I’m not looking for a dozen friends to reassure me, “Oh, now, I saw you be patient when…..”   It’s just the way I am.  Though I usually hide it better than I’ve hidden it the last few hot, cloying weeks of summer.

Is it the really heat that’s sucking the life out of me?  Or the humidity?  Or being 54 years old?  Other than financially, summer is my least-stressed time of year.  I don’t cook much.  I don’t rush to fix breakfasts in the morning, or race to fix dinner in the evening.  There’s no child in after-school care anxiously awaiting my arrival.  I’m not in a frenzy to grab Chick-Fil-A and  to make it to church Wednesday night.  I still do laundry daily, but there’s less of it.  Nobody needs an emergency trip to Wal-mart to finish a project.  Yet I find myself less and less patient when I get home and find a mess in the den, or unwashed dishes, or a dozen pairs of cast-off shoes in the entryway.

I always think – and now too often say – “Why have you left a mess?  Didn’t I tell you what to do?  Didn’t I write it down for you?  You’re my child.  Don’t you have any better sense than this?”

I listen to K-Love on the drive to and from the bus stop (and sometimes on the bus, thanks to the iPhone app) not because I am a “good person.”  I’m not a “good person.”  Believe me, I know.  I listen to contemporary Christian music because it helps center me.   Worshiping the one true God of the universe puts my day in perspective.

The other morning, the DJ was reading from the book of James, which is my favorite.  I don’t need a theology degree to understand James.    “Take note of this.  Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.” Hmmm.

And then I thought – God is probably looking at me every evening thinking, “Why have you left a mess?  Didn’t I tell you what to do?  Didn’t I write it down for you?  You’re my child.  Don’t you have any better sense than this?”

James also tells me “…to be patient then.. until the Lord’s coming.”

That could be tonight, or tomorrow – when I’m tripping over the pile of flip-flops by the front door.

Sigh.

Okay.  Tomorrow, I’ll give this patience thing one more try.

Let’s hope I learn it quickly.

She was asleep when she became an American citizen – as the wheels of this homeward-bound plane touched down in Dallas.   We had already paid about $1,500 in immigration fees, plus completed a mountain of paperwork including highly-scrutinized documents attesting to our ability to support her and provide her health care.  We did not stuff her in a suitcase to sneak her through Customs, or attempt to brand her a “co-citizen” and therefore claim no rules – or fees – applied.

Went to sleep Russian and awoke American

We patiently navigated DFW Immigration to have that all-important IR-4 stamp affixed to her Russian passport.

Her Certificate of Citizenship arrived in the mail a few weeks later.  I’d never seen one before.  Wish I could show you this large, impressive document, but copying it is against the law.  Fingering her Certificate of Citizenship both weakens and inspires me, much like I felt as a senior in high school when I gaped at the real Constitution and Declaration of Independence.  I’d won an essay contest with a prize being a trip to Washington, D.C.   I don’t cry easily.  But I cried in the National Archives as I peered down through the thick walls of protective glass at the two most important documents in our nation’s history.

With her certificate in hand, Keith waited in interminable lines to secure  Julia’s Social Security card.  Her future earnings will be taxed.

Once we had the Social Security card, we braved the Post Office to secure the final “say” in all items authentication – her American passport.   We had to send off the original Certificate of Citizenship to do so.  I sweat bullets the 14 weeks before her passport arrived, fearing some harm would come to that certificate.  None did.  It’s in our safety deposit box now – with other important papers – to be given to her later.  We also invested $350 to have her Russian birth certificate recorded in Texas – a “Recognition of Foreign Decree” – so she can get birth certificates from the state when she needs them.  Julia is anything but an “undocumented immigrant.”

Today my youngest child has all the rights and privileges her American-born sisters enjoy, save one.  She can’t be President.

She also has all the responsibilities of her American-born sisters.  She’ll pay taxes.  She’ll vote.  She’ll obey the laws.  When she starts driving, she’ll have a license.  And proof of insurance.

Because she is an American.

And today especially – I thank God for that.

The Woodworth summer has – to date – been a learning experience.

Keith is learning more about WordPress and has added “Recipes” and Library”  tabs to the top nav of This Reminds Me.  Very cool!  But the weather is not.  I am learning that by the time I drag off the bus in the evening, the heat has sucked the life right out of me and anything above “maintain” is an effort.  Watch for more content on those tabs soon.  Or at least as soon as I stop sweating.

Hannah continues to learn cake decorating, but kept it simple today for her daddy – a chocolate cake w/cow sprinkles and a side message of “From #3.”

When Keith stumbles over one of the girls’ names while hollering instruction, he often resorts to numbers.  Hannah is #3.  I do what my mom always did – just start hollering in order and stop when I hit the right one.  Julia is often designated the exotic-sounding RachLoHanJu.

Lois continues to learn/study Latin for the national competition in Fargo next month.  Yes, Latin.  Yes, Fargo, North Dakota.

Keith and I want her to watch the movie so she’ll know what to expect in Fargo, eh?

Lois is also learning to drive – taught by her (sainted) father.  He also taught Rachel, but says Hannah is learning at a school.  And Julia the Daredevil?  No driving until she’s at least 30.

We all had a good time learning about “Joseph in Egypt”  at Vacation Bible School (VBS) last week.

The Egyptians formerly known as Lois and Rachel worked 3rd & 4th grade VBS….

…which, coincidentally, their favorite princess was attending.

Hannah learned she liked working with Younger 4′s – the same age she was when we joined the church. Her teacher then – Ms. Sandra (kneeling) – also worked the Younger 4′s in VBS.  We shared hearty chuckles over preschooler Hannah licking the hand rail of the staircase, etc.

Rachel is learning Economics in an online summer school class.  Yesterday, she learned a real economic lesson, as evidenced by our nearly-simultaneous Facebook posts.

The lesson:  It is expensive to be completing a legal U-turn when a speeder behind you is swerving into oncoming traffic.

Our Sunday School classes always take prayer requests.  After church today, Rachel asked Julia, “Did you pray for me today and thank God I wasn’t hurt in the accident?”  Julia looked at her and said, “No.  You’re not even dead.”

Lesson learned:  Don’t ask unless you want to know.

I learned 19 years ago that I was married to best father ever.

Happy Father’s Day, Keith.  Let’s hope we survive the next decade or two of lessons.  xoxoxo

(l-r)  Allison, Bailey, Katie, Kyle, Joey, Lois, Rachel, Brooke (Lois’ best friend) and Hannah

And they sang a capella – the way I learned to sing.  In fact, the congregation sang “Trust and Obey,” which – when I was a child – we sang every week at the start of Sunday School.  Not that my long-suffering teachers would have thought it made much of an impression on me.

I’m going to be humming all day……

I muscled my way was invited in to the prep room.

Peter was oh-so-glad to see me.  Though I was a tad jealous.

His lipstick is more luscious than mine.

Living Last Supper

Shearer Hills Baptist Church

Thursday and Friday, April 1 & 2

7:30 p.m.

Julia’s practicing paid off – she joined her Shearer Hills Baptist Church choir buddies this morning leading us in worship.  Purely coincidence – Amazing Love played on K-Love yesterday morning on our way to the grocery store, so we belted it out in a trio with Chris Tomlin.   I get to listen to K-love again since I finished the Faith by Hearing New Testament series.  And in case you were wondering – Revelation sounds even more strangely than it reads.

Every few years, our church produces the Living Last Supper – a dramatic reenactment of the final Passover meal with Jesus and his disciples.  For the third time – Keith is portraying Peter, the big fisherman.  The disciples were, of course, really….ummmmm….young guys.  So it was suggested to Keith – perhaps a little cosmetology would be in order?  Maybe give a nodding acquaintance to Miss Clairol?

The Stylist Formerly Known as Rachel first pinned his brown and silver locks so the color could be evenly applied.  He’s not had a haircut in three months, so he has hair’o'plenty.

“There is no such thing as natural beauty.”  Truvy Jones

His middle name is now “Harley.”

Living Last Supper

Thursday and Friday

April 1 & 2, 2010

Tickets Free But Required – Ping Me, I Have Some

Shearer Hills Baptist Church

So here goes – tuning to Channel Glad now…..

The sad news from a Sea World last week made me glad Shamu didn’t see us as bathtub toys in 1998.  Though maybe Rachel had a few doubts at the time.

I know many friends really enjoy the Olympics – more power to you.  But personally – I’m glad they’re soon to be over.  They’re preempting “The Office,”  and that’s a show the girls and I watch together.  The last time I watched the Olympics was the 1972 night the Russians stole the basketball game via repeated do-overs.  I vowed I’d never watch again – and forgiving soul that I am – I haven’t.   U-verse – btw – has had a terrific application for the Olympics.

My continuing rancor at that travesty of a game is kind of funny since my favorite basketball player now is Russian.

There is little that makes me more glad than to hear my girls sing.  Tonight was Hannah’s pre-UIL concert.  That’s her – top row, far left.

“Walking in Jerusalem” really made me smile.  I just finished the book of John in “Faith by Hearing” yesterday.  I wonder about John.  What made him so beloved?

About two years ago, Julia caught a snippet of “Ben Hur” on TV and has pestered me ever since about seeing the whole movie.  “Mom, when are we going to watch that Jesus movie?”  I really didn’t think she was ready for it until recently.  I bought it last week (if I’d just waited one more week, I could have recorded it for free on U-verse – sigh.)   She and I are watching 30 – 45 minutes every few days.  Well, we probably watch 30 minutes, and have 15 minutes of questions.  She’s gotten the concept down – Judah Ben-Hur was a man whose life intersected with Jesus’ at different times, but Judah didn’t know who Jesus really was in those early meetings.  Last night, she told me, “Mom, that’s like us.  Everybody knows Jesus’ name but they don’t know who he really is.”   I was very glad to hear her say that.

From sad and mad to glad. 

Thanks, Mom.  I’m feeling better already.

Julia is sitting next to me right this minute, practicing the songs her choir plans to sing Palm Sunday.  This is her “I’m paying attention” face – because she is.  She takes her responsibilities seriously.

We met Julia four years ago today. She spoke - and sang - in Russian.   She didn’t know “family” and certainly not us personally.  She had no idea how long we had prepared, prayed, wept, saved, reorganized and planned to get her here, knowing God’s hand was it (but wanting human hands to move a whole lot faster.)  She had to leave everyone and everything she knew to leap into the unknown.   I believe her walking out of Children’s Home #47 with us was the single bravest act I’ve ever seen committed – anywhere at any time by anyone.

On Palm Sunday, she’ll led us in worship – in English.  And instead of her following us – we’ll follow her.

Just a moment ago, she began singing Chris Tomlin’s, “How Great Is Our God.”

How great is our God

Sing with me

How great is our God

And all will see

How great

How great

Is our God.

That’s right, Julia.

Get us ready for Easter.

David and me with Carl in 1965.

Judy and Sarah have been blanketed with comforting calls and cards, each offering condolences and offers of support.  But to a grief-shocked wife and daughter – at least for now – they’re just words.    And right now, words just aren’t enough.

We lost Carl as the tragedy unfolded Haiti, with more than 100,000 killed.   Every news report – every K-Love special announcement – as I traveled to and from Houston ladled on more buckets of Haitian misery – thousands of falling buildings.  No food, clean water or medical supplies for the hundreds of thousands injured.  And while a still-reasoning reservoir in my mind processed the magnitude of those numbers – I felt no desire to “do something.”   Except pull into my sister’s driveway.

Who and what  matters most are those in your heart.   So as incredible as were those Haitian numbers, they impacted me far less than the one.  Because just like words are sometimes not enough – neither are numbers.

Count your blessings.  Name them one by one.  And go give them big hugs.