Sam’s dad thinks his mustache is only worth $500. I say F* that noise. As of this writing, he’s already doubled that. I think we can do better.
Sam’s going to get better. He’s going to have many years before he meets Madison. St. Baldricks funds the research to help kids beat cancer. That buys you enough karma points to go kick some puppies and tease some kittens with your tuna sandwich.
Sorry for the poor film quality. Last year, I set up the camera and told TeenBot what buttons to press when. This time, I let him wing it. With a new, far more complicated, camera.
Particularly in light of recent events, it’s easy to forget that the Lord is with us always. Especially in the hard times.
This weekend, not only did I have the pleasure of singing for my church in our Christmas Cantata, but I got to watch my son perform Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer in his first piano recital. It seems such a simple blessing, but one I cannot take for granted.
EDIT: Apparently, I can’t steal her button. So click the picture and then click the button over there. This is what I get for not testing prior to publishing.
It’s Tam’s donation button collection of 1′s and 0′s. If you are able, you should click it because cancer is a bitch and deserves to die in the fires of the special hell. And because medical bills only come in size large and on up from there. Trust me, I know. I’ve got my own pile of them in dealing with spinal issues this year. Thankfully, I have the luxury of a pretty decent health insurance package that makes it a bit more manageable. Tam does not have this luxury. Such is the life of the glamorously self-unemployed.
You’ve probably seen similar requests over at Matt’s place and Marko’s. I expect you will be seeing more because as Matt says, we need her more than see needs us. I’ve not had the pleasure of knowing her as long as these two gentleman have, but she’s dear to me all the same. I am far from alone in that sentiment. Just by being herself, Tam provided my cute, ornery, bratty, troubled niece* an example of an awesome, sweet and powerful woman not to be trifled with. That alone is worth more than all the gold in the world.
Prayers and positive thoughts would certainly be welcomed as well. Go on and pester the Big Guy on Tam’s behalf.
In an attempt to help the TeenBot improve both his writing skills and intellectual curiosity, we assigned him a project for the summer. He was to research and put together an essay (ish) on the history of the Soviet Union. We’ve spent countless hours talking through some high points and adjusting the assignment.
And he digs in his heels and does nothing. It’s frustrating to say the least.
But at least my son is here to be frustrated with. He can confound and irritate and then shock and amaze. Sometimes all in one breath. Each of those shiny silver strands that have started to appear on my head are a treasure, purified in the fire that is parenthood.
The raindrops gently washing the day’s tears from fresh flowers and wreaths laid on so many graves as they quenched the heat of the day. I was free to sit on the front porch with my husband and enjoy the relief, my son tucked safely in his bed.
My freedom came at great cost. It always does. Freedom cannot be purchased with favors or spoils. Freedom is only ever purchased in blood. In this world, it’s the blood of many soldiers that will never again share a cool beer with their spouse. Their sons’ foreheads never to feel that goodnight kiss.
Thank you. Thank you for the divine sacrifice. May you claim your great reward in eternity, a freedom also purchased in blood.
Is death. And we are all sinners and fall short. I fall short on a regular basis. Daily. Hourly, even. The miracle of it is that it’s okay.
It’s okay because the one perfect man to ever walk the earth paid the bill for me. And it was expensive. I cringe when I think of what he went through. Beaten and abused almost to the point of death before they ever nailed him to the cross. For me.
For inconsequential, far-from-perfect me. It weighs heavy on my heart.
This is the cornerstone of the Christian faith. Because on Sunday, Jesus breaks the rules. In truth, he’d been breaking them all along to the supreme annoyance of leaders of the time. He wasn’t supposed to heal people on the Sabbath. Or speak directly to the Samaritan woman. Dine with tax collectors and prostitutes (Bet the conversations were far more lively than at the Pharisee’s dinner).
And once he was dead, he was supposed to stay dead.
But Jesus isn’t much for the arbitrary rules. No, he gave Satan the finger and rose from the dead. And in the ultimate practical joke, paid all our debts too. He threw open the gates of Heaven to any who would accept the invitation. No velvet rope. No bouncer with a list. And yeah, the best party ever is going on there. No dress code. No magical words to recite.
He paid it. All anyone has to do is accept it.
What’s so good about Good Friday? Sunday is coming.